Dying by Surviving
by Baka-Sensei
Summary: Set three years postRENT. Roger and Mark deal with losing friends differently. How does Mark deal with the knowlege that he may very well be the last one of their group left alive? What if Mark can't take the pressure? MR.
1. Chapter 1

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HELLO! I have finally decided to venture into the land of SERIOUS fiction! HOLY CRAP! Anyways... the plot bunny for this has been bouncing around in my head non-stop and refused to stop after I'd seen RENT for the third time in theaters... so here it be.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Jonathon Larson is responsible for them, may God rest his soul and send him beams of rainbow love from all us RENTheads!

* * *

Looking into the dressing room mirror, he almost didn't recognize himself. It was odd to think that this was the same reflection he was accustomed to seeing, and for a moment, the last three years almost seemed like a dream, or some sort of drug-induced vision. Those he was used to. Those he usually had no problem analyzing and then promptly forgetting about. But the face that continued to stare back at him refused that, testifying that this, here and now was achingly real. 

Dusty-blonde hair that was usually wavy had been straightened and spiked out with some sort of fruity-smelling gel. A chin that usually sported a five-o' clock shadow had been shaved clean, letting the smile lines around his mouth stand out in sharper contrast. Light green-blue eyes were rimmed with dark kohl eyeliner, eyes that had once been so angry, cold and guarded. Now a quiet grief shined out from behind them, along with a good amount of hard-earned wisdom. But most prominent in those eyes was that hope, that purpose which they had lacked most strongly in the past.

The loud banging of the dressing room door slamming shut shocked him out of his self-perusal, and his chair was suddenly swung violently around to a grinning face framed by long dread-locks.

"Roger, man, you seen the crowd that's out there tonight? Damn, man, it's the biggest fuckin' crowd I've seen so far!" Dark brown eyes narrowed and he raised a thick eyebrow with a leer. "You should see some 'o the chicks out there too, man! If I don't get lucky at least three times tonight with some class-A hotties, I'll pay you that 20 bucks I owe you!"

Roger laughed.

"Blake, you'll never pay me that 20 bucks you owe me, regardless. Shouldn't you be tuning your bass or something instead of bothering me with tales of your impressive sex appeal?"

"Ahh, don't knock it 'cause you jealous, bro. Hell, I'm sure even your stinky ass could pick up a couple bitches tonight the way they gettin' all worked up already!"

"Not tonight, Blake."

"Fuck, man. You say that every God damn night."

"Wouldn't wanna break the pattern, then, now would I?" A sardonic grin lit up the lead guitarist's face.

"Shut the hell up. I swear to God, Roger, sometimes I wonder if you have any sex-drive at all." Blake turned and strode toward the door, turning half-around after he grabbed the handle.

"Show starts in five minutes, man. Stop angsting all alone in the dressing room and get your ass out there." His teeth flashed brightly against his mahogany skin and he winked in an obscenely sexual way. Roger had no idea how Blake turned winking into something obscenely sexual, but if anyone could do it, he could. Roger grinned and flipped him off.

With a bark of laughter from Blake, Roger was left alone in the dressing room again. With one last glance at the mirror, he turned to leave.

_

* * *

2 years earlier: _

Roger rubbed clammy hands onto his freshly-pressed black pants. Hell, he thought he'd been ready for this for months, but for some reason the butterflies just wouldn't stop ricocheting around his stomach. He straightened his tie nervously, loosening it for a moment in some last ditch effort to get the lump out of his throat.

"Ready to go, Rog?" The quiet question made him jump, seeming loud in the previously silent room.

"Jesus, Mark! You scared the shit outta me!" His best friend smiled.

"Well, glad to know you're still in there. I was beginning to think you had gone comatose on me."

Mark looked strangely out of place in the borrowed tux, his fingers peaking out from below the too-long sleeves. Roger glanced at him pleadingly.

"Am I doing the right thing, Mark?" he asked for the hundredth time that day. Mark sighed.

"We've gone through this, Rog. You know you love her."

"I do."

"Then what the hell else is there to think about? Come on, man. I'm the one who over-analyzes shit. Don't pull a me. Let's go. Everyone's waiting."

Mark grabbed his sleeve and dragged him out the door, their shoes echoing loudly on the linoleum floor. The smell of antiseptic and medication reached Roger's nostrils, and he almost balked. Damn, he hated hospitals.

They reached the end of the hall, opening two big wooden doors seeming out of place in the bleak white hallway. Dim lighting from candles and the single stain glass window gave the small chapel a homey feel, and the small group gathered there stood. Everyone was smiling. Collins flashed him the biggest shit-eating grin Roger had ever seen on his face. Well, except for that time he'd seen Angel dressed in nothing but an American flag she'd converted into a very irreverent dress for the Fourth of July. Then he saw her.

The butterflies disappeared immediately. For all that she was too weak to really stand, laid out in the movable hospital bed, several IVs running into her arm, she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Maureen and Joanne had helped her out of the hospital gown and into a glittering light blue dress; she'd flat out refused to wear the traditional white. Her deep brown eyes were lined with her favorite blue eyeliner, her full lips accentuated by an almost sheer gloss.

The quiet smile that reached those beautiful eyes of hers made his stomach do flip-flops. He was falling in love all over again, as fucking cliché as that was. No more regrets, he strode up to stand next to her, his hand immediately seeking out hers.

The ceremony was short and to the point. No one had much time to waste anyway. He slipped the simple gold band onto her finger gently, and recited the vows he'd spent nearly a week perfecting.

"Mimi, there's no way I can tell you how thankful I am you came into my life. You taught me how to laugh again, you taught me how to live again, but most importantly, you taught me how to love again. I love you, and if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life loving you." Her smile got even bigger, and he could see the tears threatening to slide down her cheeks. She reached for his hand, and slipped on his matching gold ring.

"Roger, you gave me back everything that I'd lost somewhere along the way. I love you, baby. And even though I'm stuck in this stupid bed, I want you to know that this is the happiest day of my life."

He didn't hear the reverend announcing they were now man and wife. He didn't hear the uproarious applause from his friends. All he knew was that he was holding Mimi, he was kissing Mimi, and he never wanted to let her go.

_3 weeks later:_

Her body was drenched in sweat, and so was he, curled up holding her on the small hospital bed. She wasn't even shaking anymore, her breaths coming in short rasps, and he knew it wouldn't be long. Mark was sitting in the corner across the room, looking on solemnly, Maureen and Joanne standing next to him and holding hands so tightly their knuckles had turned white. Collins had left an hour before to call Benny and hadn't come back. Roger didn't blame him. It would have been hell to have gone through this a second time.

He was vaguely aware that he was whispering into her ear, rocking her, the string of 'I love you's becoming a desperate chant. Suddenly, her hand was squeezing his back, and she moved her head to look into his eyes.

"Roger, baby," she breathed out, each word a tremendous effort to get past her lips, "you gotta promise me…"

"Promise what, Mimi?" he choked out, tears running freely down his face.

"That you'll…keep going," it was getting harder for her to speak. He almost wanted to tell her to be quiet, to save her breath, but he knew these might be the last words she ever said. "Promise…you'll still keep writing me songs? I swear… I'll still hear them."

"Mimi…"

"Promise me, Roger." That sentence had been strong, adamant, almost like she wasn't struggling for breath, almost as if she wasn't even sick anymore.

"I promise, baby. I promise." A smile lit up that beautiful face, her brown eyes sparkling.

"Good. Love you." She was falling back into a restless sleep. He held her tighter.

"Love you, too, Mimi," he whispered into her hair, trying in vain to stifle his sobs.

They called her three hours later.

_

* * *

Present:_

Roger ran his fingers lightly over the gold band he still wore on his left ring-finger. He placed a small kiss to it, and walked out towards the stage. He could hear the pulsing beat of the crowd, and smiled.

Mimi had never really fully recovered after that cold Christmas eve they'd found her in the park. They'd had one more year together after that, and he had treasured every day of it. He never regretted the three weeks they'd had together as husband and wife; he almost got pissed at himself that he hadn't married her sooner.

He had kept to his promise, and instead of blocking everyone out like he had when he'd lost April, he channeled the grief into his songs. He'd gotten the old band back together, and now the Well Hungarians had built up quite an underground following along the east coast. They'd been touring now for almost a month, and he was still amazed at the number of fans they packed into the small-time venues they'd been hitting.

Mimi had been right in making him promise. Every night he went out and sang for her, he sang to reach out, to tell her story. He would never let her death be in vain. And even though he sang for her, he sang for his friends, too. He sang for Angel, he sang for Collins and, even though he may never admit it to his best friend's face, he sang for Mark sometimes too. Because this was his way of showing them what they all meant to him. To show that he would never forget.

And in keeping that promise, an amazing thing had happened. He found that he would never forget Mimi, never forget any of his friends, but for the first time in a long time, he was really happy. He was glad he was able to still be out there, bringing his music to people; that rush he got from being onstage was bigger than ever. He found a joy in sending out his message, the same type of joy he'd had whenever Mimi smiled at him, whenever Angel made a snarky comment, whenever Collins laughed, whenever Mark's eyes lit up with a quiet pride and slight awe for him when Roger played Musetta's Waltz perfectly all the way through.

Blake rushed past him with a short clap to his shoulder as Jeff started in with the drum beat, the crowd screaming as Blake picked up his guitar, thrusting his pelvis out obscenely as he ground against it. Roger smiled and shook his head. That was his cue.

_Get ready for another kick-ass show, Mimi. I know you're listening. _

* * *

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, a bead of moisture running down his temple to the already soaked pillow. His eyes clenched shut then relaxed in spasms, wordless whimpers escaping his lips he was biting so hard he was drawing blood. Even that small pain couldn't wake him from the now familiar nightmare that ravaged his sleeping mind. 

_Cold. It was freezing cold. Not the kind of bone-numbing cold he was used to; it was the kind of cold that filled you from the inside, ate you up until there was nothing left. He was shivering in vain, hugging himself as he took in his surroundings. The headstones were looming over him, a stark black against the grey sky, almost as if they were holes cut out of the air, a gaping nothingness staring back at him beyond. _

His knuckles were white as they clenched the sheets. Blankets tangled around his legs as he began to kick restlessly. One violent kick moved the whole rickety bed, bumping into the bedside table and jarring a pair of glasses onto the floor.

_Names stared back at him from the headstones. Friends, acquaintances, family members. Some he remembered readily, grieved their death every day, others he didn't remember and felt guilty for forgetting. He began to walk slowly through the barren landscape, hugging himself closer as he passed individual gravestones. These were the names he knew. _

_A pang of pain hit him as he passed each one, almost bringing him to his knees with the harshness of it. He passed one gravestone. Angel. A second. Mimi. A third, the newest and therefore most painful. Collins. Tears were rolling down his face now, burning against his cheeks like razors running down his skin. Vaguely, he remembered that he almost never cried when he was awake._

_A sick feeling began sinking into his stomach as he came up to a new gravestone. He was coming up behind it, and he couldn't see the inscription. It was like he was stepping on knives as he walked around to the front to read the inscription. Slowly, he raised his eyes to read it. Roger Davis. _

_His mouth opened in a soundless scream of denial and he was falling, tumbling into the abyss carved out by that gravestone, and suddenly there was nothing all around him. Absolutely nothing. And he was alone. All he knew was that he was alone…_

Mark awoke when a harsh scream ripped into the silence of the empty loft. Slowly, he realized it was himself that had screamed. Breathing harshly, he tried to calm himself down. He took in his surroundings, reminded himself where he was. He was home in the loft. He was safe. Roger was fine, he was just on tour. Had been for almost a month.

He fumbled for his glasses, setting them onto his nose after he found them on the ground and turned on the bedside lamp. It wasn't because Roger was gone that the nightmares were occurring.

Hell, Roger didn't even live in the loft with him when he wasn't on tour. Hadn't for over a year. As soon as the Well Hungarians had begun to hit it big, he'd been forced to move to an apartment that was closer to the recording studio, closer to his other band mates. If Mark remembered correctly, Roger had been adamantly against moving out in the first place. Mark had convinced him it was better in the end.

No, the nightmares had been occurring almost regularly for over a year. They'd started right after they'd finally lost Collins.

_

* * *

15 months ago: _

Mark kept himself occupied with getting his camera out of his satchel as he walked into the hospital. He had to distract himself to get up the nerve to come in here. It was too soon to be back in this fucking hospital. Only nine months since they'd lost Mimi. Now they were getting ready to say goodbye to Collins. He was sick of hospitals. With a humorless smile, he wondered if Roger and him should have a contest over who hated them more.

He walked to room 106 on autopilot. He opened the door, making sure to adopt a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He walked over to the edge of Collins' bed. He was awake and sitting up, re-reading a book of poetry by his beloved Langston Hughes. He marked his spot when Mark sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Another visit, Marky? So soon? Shit, man. The way you act, you'd think I was about to die or something!" Collins chuckled at his own morbid joke.

"Ha ha. Very funny," Mark deadpanned. Only Collins would still be his same cheerful self, even when Death was knocking on his door. Mark wouldn't be surprised if he managed to be late for his own funeral, making some excuse about having gotten tied up when he finally showed, and did they know how much leather chafed? Mark couldn't resist a smile at that image.

"Seriously, Mark. I'm just tryin' to lighten up the atmosphere in here," Collins shifted closer and lowered his voice. "Between you and me, I think the people in here all seriously need to have themselves a good party for once. Or get laid."

"_They_ need to get laid? You should tell them to fax me. I'm getting desperate enough." Mark couldn't resist joking back with Collins. His humor was infectious. Collins let out a throaty laugh.

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about, Mark. Good to see there's still some sort of funny bone left in that Kosher body of yours."

"Enough about me. How are you feeling, Collins?"

"Same as always. Pretty damn shitty. But that's how it goes, I guess. I refuse to let something as little as a chronic cough and nausea get me down." Almost as if on cue, Collins turned his head and began hacking violently. Mark helped steady his shoulders when he threatened to flop over on the bed.

"The meds helping at all?" he asked when Collins was done coughing.

"Not much they can do anymore, I'm afraid," Collins said, his voice taking on a serious tone uncharacteristic of him. "I gotta level with you, Mark. They're saying I've got a month left at the most."

Mark nodded numbly, the tears that always seemed to be threatening pushing at the back of his eyes. But he refused to let them come. He was the strong one. He had to stay in control.

"Now don't get all depressed on me," Collins said kindly with a short chuckle. "Seriously, Mark, I've made my peace. I haven't really been the same since Angel went, you know. It's almost a relief that I finally get to follow him."

"I know, Collins. And like you keep telling me, there's not much I can do about it, right?"

"There you go, acting all defeatist." One of Collins hands came up to grip Mark's shoulder strongly. "I'm worried about you, Marky."

"Don't worry," Mark smiled. "Roger's had a flame lit under his ass with how well the band's been doing. He's happy to remember Mimi and make her proud. Sure, Benny's still an asshole, but that was a given. And Maureen and Joanne will always have each other to bitch at and screw alternately."

"I didn't mean 'you' as in 'you guys', Mark. I meant you," Collins corrected him.

"Oh."

"Listen, Mark…"

"Don't, Collins," Mark cut him off. "I can handle it. I'm fine."

"No, you're not, Mark." Collins paused for a moment, meeting Mark's eyes with his own. Finally he broke into a wistful smile.

"I always knew you were gonna be the one of us to make it," he continued. "You would be the one to survive. You've just got this power about you. It's a quiet kind of strength, but it's there. You're only problem is that you care too fucking much." Mark let out a laugh that he would _not_ admit was on the watery side.

"It's a bad thing to care, Collins?"

"Not a bad thing to care, Mark, but it's a bad thing when you care so much that you're constantly questioning whether anything you could have done would've changed the way things are. It's not your fault, Mark. It's never been your fault. And I'm afraid that when I go, you're gonna block people out. Not that I'd blame you. The best of people would after losing three close friends in such quick succession.

"I think the problem is that you're so used to being neglected. Not that we ignored you on purpose, but I think you never really had a chance to grieve yourself. When Angel went, you were trying to hold me together, hold Roger together when he was tripping over Mimi. When Mimi went, you were too busy staying strong for Roger to realize that he didn't need you to be strong for him. He'd already found his purpose out of what happened. He's dealt with it better than I dealt with losing Angel. You, though, I think you've been slowly losing yourself since Angel died."

What the hell could he say to that? How had Collins been able to rip right past all his carefully constructed façades to see into the truth of the matter? Mark stayed silent, staring at a speck of dust on the blanket.

"You've got so much to give, Mark," Collins continued after squeezing Mark's shoulder encouragingly. "You tend to get a little caught up in your work sometimes, but you have the same capacity to love that Angel had. You find people you love, and you stick by them unconditionally, no matter what." Collins paused for a moment, almost as if he was gathering himself. Finally, he continued.

"I learned things from all of my friends, but I'd have to say that Angel and you taught me the most. Angel taught me about passion, and you taught me about patience. He taught me about love; you taught me about loyalty. I love you, man. I just didn't wanna go without ever telling you that."

Well, shit. Now Mark _was_ crying. Collins seemed to understand, though. He opened his arms, pulling Mark into a hug. Mark was amazed that there seemed to be so much strength left in him as he held him, letting him sob into his shoulder.

"Mark, I want you to keep loving after I go," Collins whispered when Mark had calmed down. "Like I said, you've got so much to give, man. Don't stop giving just because my tired old body decided to quit on me. I'd hate to rob the world of such a prize; well, the parts that haven't been destroyed by that damn conservative upbringing of yours." Collins grinned, and Mark couldn't help but smile back. He sat back up, took off his glasses for a moment and wiped his eyes.

"I don't know if I can promise you that I'll be able to do that, Tom," Mark finally said. "But I can promise you that I won't ever stop trying." Collins laughed and clapped him on the back.

"That's all I ask, Mark. That's all I ask."

_

* * *

Present:_

It was three weeks and two days after that conversation that Collins finally went to join Angel. Ever since then, Mark had done his best to keep trying, but it seemed like lately it had begun to get even harder. And during these cold nights when he woke up alone and freaked out, all those doubts came back to him. Especially doubts that had been planted by a fight with Roger on Halloween.

_Who, Mark, are you?_

Mark rubbed weary blue eyes and swung his legs out from under the covers. He shuffled to the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing cold water into his face. He glared at his reflection in the mirror. These days, he almost didn't recognize himself.

_Mark hides in his work. From facing your failure, facing your loneliness, facing the fact you live a lie._

He went back to his bed and flopped down onto it face first. He almost hoped the comforter would smother him into oblivion. With a sigh, he rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He felt cold. He wished he didn't feel anymore.

_You're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive. You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive._

He couldn't stand this anymore. He stood up to go start a pot of coffee, reaching to grab his mug off the shelf when he got to the kitchen. In the dark, he fumbled it, and there was a loud crash as it shattered on the floor.

"Fuck," he breathed to the empty apartment.

Carefully, he reached for the light switch, careful not to move his bare feet. He didn't want to step on any broken glass. When he flicked the light on, he made sure not to step on any shards and grabbed a dust pan. After sweeping up most of the little pieces, he went to pick up the bigger ones.

"Shit!" he cursed again as he felt his index finger get sliced by a piece that he'd grabbed, misjudging which side was the sharp one. He automatically put his finger into his mouth, tasting the copper tang of blood.

_ Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive!_

Mark grabbed the band-aids out of the medicine cabinet, rinsing his finger off with soap and water, wincing at the sting. Finally, he wrapped his relatively clean cut in the sterile band-aid.

_Why am I the witness? And when I capture it on film, will it mean that it's the end and I'm alone?_

"That's fucking it," he stated to the empty loft.

Along with all his worries and neuroses, an idea had planted itself in his mind about a year ago. He'd finally decided it was about damn time he put the idea to good use.

He went back out to the kitchen and glanced at the clock. It was almost 6:30 in the morning. Good. That meant she'd be up since it was a Wednesday. He picked up the phone.

"It's time I started trying a little harder, Collins," he whispered as he dialed the number. He waited. A few rings, and she picked up.

"Joanne? It's Mark. I need to ask for a favor…"

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Soooo... dat be it for Chapter 1. Chapter 2 should be out fairly soon, as I have half of it done at the time of this posting... yay! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!

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	2. Chapter 2

So, this is the most obscenely fast I've gotten two chapters that are so long out in a row. Did that sentence make any sense? You know what I mean. Anyways, enjoy! No flames, but constructive criticism appeases the great gods of Pez..._  
_

_

* * *

Two months later: _

Roger jolted out of his dozing state when the jarring ring of a cell-phone invaded his ear drums. He groaned, shifting in his seat, and brought a hand to rub over his face. Blinking his eyes, he looked out the bus window and watched as a few taxis drove by, a human river bustling down the sidewalk. They were back in good old Alphabet City. And that damn phone hadn't shut up.

"ROGER!" The guitarist jumped as Blake's face came into his line of vision. He was two inches away, and had just screamed into Roger's ear. "Snap out of it, man! Your ass is ringing!"

Roger blinked until he realized that it was his cell phone, packed snugly into his back pocket, that had been ringing this whole time. Blake chuckled as the lead guitarist dug it out and pressed it on. Roger's eyebrow twitched.

"Hey, Roger here."

"Roger? It's Joanne. Heard you were heading back today. Where are you?" Roger smiled when he recognized the lawyer's voice, then quickly glanced outside to check their location.

"We're already in the city. 'Bout five minutes from my apartment, fifteen from the loft. How you all doing?"

"We're fine. How long do you think it'll take you to unpack?" There was something about Joanne's tone that made Roger a little nervous, the way she'd hesitated before answering.

"We should probably be done in a couple hours," Roger answered. "Sort of troublesome that we've made it big enough to go on tour, but not quite big enough to hire roadies. I'll have to tell Blake to start hitting up some of his 'hos' for extra money, since he's so convinced he's a pimp."

Joanne chuckled when she heard Blake's protest in the background of, "I'm not the only one convinced I'm a pimp, asshole! I get more action in a night then you'd get in a year!"

"Well, when you do get done, how about you drop by our apartment? I know Maureen would love to see you as much as I would. We can order out."

"How _is_ 'honey bear' doing? Still driving you bat-shit?"

"Please. At the very _least_ I'd like to think I've built up some sort of immunity by now."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Fuck you. Anyway, can I expect you around six?"

"Sure. Why don't you invite Mark too? I was gonna head over to the loft later anyway."

"Umm… I think he might be busy today…"

"Doing what? Last I'd heard, he'd just finished that film he's been working on, and he can't be so wrapped up in working on the next one that he'd pass up an evening with his favorite superstar. Did he get a job or something?" That seemed unlikely, though. Why the hell would Mark get a job? He ate, slept and breathed his personal work.

"Well, he did start working for Buzzline again about a month and a half ago…" Roger's eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

"_What! _Why in God's name would he go back to that soul-sucking Alexi Darling?"

"Listen, Roger, why don't we talk about that when you get here. I gotta go." Okay, something was definitely up. Now Joanne sounded _extremely _uncomfortable.

"Umm…okay, I guess," Roger replied uneasily.

"Don't worry, Roger. Nobody died or anything." Roger let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Well, that's good to know. I guess I'll see you at six, then?"

"Yeah. See you then." Roger turned his cell phone off when he heard the beep of Joanne hanging up. What the hell was going on?

"Who was that?" Jeff asked from his spot behind the driver's wheel, cutting into Roger's thoughts.

"Oh. Just Joanne." He braced himself.

"Joanne? And how is that sweet, sexy lawyer of mine doing?" Blake really grated on his nerves sometimes.

"I told you, Blake. There's no way in hell. Just 'cause you've got some kind of crush…"

"Ain't a crush, man," Blake interrupted him. "I just enjoy a challenge now and then. And that sister is so fine it's a fuckin' shame she's into other chicks. Really, one night with me and I could…"

"SHUT THE HELL UP, BLAKE!" Roger and Jeff shouted in unison.

"Okay, okay. Jesus."

* * *

_Three hours later: _

Roger knocked on the door to Maureen and Joanne's apartment feeling not a small amount of worry. He'd been turning it around in his head for the past three hours, and the idea of Mark deciding to go back to Buzzline just struck him as, for lack of a better term, _wrong._ He'd tried to come up with reasons as to why Mark would, but there was nothing he could think of that would make Mark ever go back. He'd vowed over and over in front of Roger that he would never sell out again, even on pain of death. So what the hell had happened?

The other thing that bothered him was the fact that he hadn't known. Why wouldn't Mark even tell him? It wasn't like he couldn't get in touch with Roger easily… Didn't he know he could tell him anything? They were best friends. Why would he keep something so big from him?

It had hit Roger then that he hadn't spoken to Mark in over a week. The last time they had spoken had been when Roger was giving him the details about when to expect them back. This was the longest tour they'd ever been on, and before, for the shorter ones, the ones that had lasted only a couple weeks, Mark had called him almost every day, asking about how things were going, telling him about what him and the rest of the gang had been up to. How could Roger have been so blind as to not notice the lack of calls? It all just reinforced his gut feeling that something was really wrong.

His thoughts were cut off as Joanne answered the door. She smiled brightly when she saw him, but to Roger it seemed a little forced. She hugged him and ushered him in.

"It's so good to see you, Roger! Maureen! Roger's here!" Maureen swept into the room like an F5 tornado, her bangles jingling and her teeth standing out stark white against her bright-red lips.

"Roger, sweetie!" she squealed, sweeping him into a rib-crushing hug and leaving lipstick stains on both his cheeks. She grabbed either side of his face, shaking his head slightly back and forth. "You look so good! How've you been?" Before he could even open his mouth to answer, Joanne was practically dragging him to the dining room.

"You'll have to tell us all about the tour," she said as she ushered him into a seat. He took the opportunity to wipe at the marks Maureen had left on his face. "But first, eat. You must be exhausted. I got Chinese food from that restaurant down the street. It's your favorite, right?"

"Of course it's his favorite, pookie! They make the best egg-rolls in the whole damn city!" Maureen accentuated her proclamation by swiping one of said egg-rolls onto her plate.

"I will never understand your obsession with egg-rolls…" Joanne trailed with a sigh.

"Of course _you _wouldn't, pookie. It would be impossible for a tight-ass like you to understand the glory, wonder and yummyness of egg-rolls."

"'Yummyness' is not a real word."

"As soon as a word is used, that makes it real," Maureen protested from behind a mouth full of egg-roll. "So, Roger," she continued after swallowing. "How was the tour?"

"Were the audiences you brought in very big?" Joanne asked.

"Ooo, did you get any crazy groupies flashing you?"

"God, Maureen. Why do you want to know about other women taking off their clothes?" There was a dangerous tone to Joanne's voice.

"Aww, pookie. I was just asking…"

"Don't answer that question, Roger. Was performing every night that stressful on you?"

"Yeah, how are you feeling, sweetie?"

"Okay! God damn, you two! Stop with the double teaming bull shit and tell me what the hell is up!" Roger cut Joanne off as she opened her mouth. "I used to be on smack, but that doesn't mean all of my brain-cells are dead! Jesus, even Blake wouldn't be distracted by this little performance!"

"That's not true, Roger. You know Blake would be distracted by anything with tits!" Maureen pouted, exaggeratedly sticking out her lower lip.

"Don't try to change the subject!" Roger glared at her, and she lapsed into a real pout. He turned to her lover. "Joanne, level with me. What the hell is going on with Mark?"

Joanne looked stricken for a moment, then grabbed across the table for Maureen's hand.

"It's really complicated, Roger," she said quietly, previous bubbly act forgotten.

"Just tell me. I've been worrying myself to death, and I sure as hell don't need any help in getting there!"

"Well…okay." Joanne nodded at Maureen, and the actress stood up, walked over to the kitchen counter and grabbed a folder. She passed it to Roger with a sad look on her face.

Roger's heart was beating in his ears as he opened it. A lease stared up at him on the top of a small pile of papers. He scanned over it, and the beating abruptly stopped, then picked up at a faster pace when he realized it was the lease to the loft.

"What the hell…?" he trailed. Maureen and Joanne glanced worriedly at each other.

"Mark… left," Maureen whispered, a tone that seemed so odd coming out of her usually obnoxiously loud mouth.

"What… do you mean, he left?" Roger looked up, his eyes darting, almost in a panic. Joanne put a hand on his forearm to try and offer some support.

"He said he had some stuff he needed to do," she offered, giving Roger a sympathetic look. "He didn't want you to worry, but he refused to let us know where he was going and when…if… he'd be back."

"The fuck!" Roger shouted, slamming his hands to the table. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me? He's gone already!"

"He's been gone for almost a week," Maureen put in after wincing at Roger's outburst. "He didn't want us to tell you. He knew you'd stop him."

Roger was in shock. He didn't know whether to scream, cry, or kick both Maureen and Joanne's asses. How the hell had this happened? Why? Why did Mark leave? Roger was on the verge of a major blow-up, the like of which he hadn't had since when him and Mimi would fight over Benny.

"Roger, calm down," Joanne soothed, running her hand rhythmically up and down his arm. "You didn't see him when he came and asked for my help. He was… desperate. He needed to get away. He needed to figure something out."

"What? What did he have to do?" Roger practically screamed into her face.

"I'm… not sure. He wouldn't give us any details," Joanne said, glancing down at the table, unable to meet his furious gaze. "But the way he looked at me, Roger… I know he needed this."

Roger could feel his eyes burning with angry tears, and he wiped at them roughly. He couldn't believe this was happening. It was too fast, too strange, too soon. It almost didn't seem real. How could Mark be gone?

"Why did he come to you for help?" he heard a voice he recognized as his own ask. He was clenching his jaw so tightly he thought it might break.

"He needed a lawyer to put all his affairs in order," Joanne paused, and took a breath. "He left… everything to you…"

Roger glanced back down at the folder. So that's why the lease for the loft was staring back up at him.

"I see…" he whispered almost inaudibly.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he sprang up, almost running towards the door in his haste. He ignored Joanne and Maureen when they called for him to wait. He rushed out into the street and ran, heading towards the loft. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't. His harsh breaths panted out into the air as he ran faster, one thought pounding through his head.

_Mark can't be gone!

* * *

_

_5 days earlier: _

Mark stuffed the last sweater he owned into the single large suitcase he was taking with him. He'd decided to leave all the furniture and appliances behind, even the hot-plate. He smirked. His mom would freak when she found out what he was doing. Maybe he just shouldn't tell her. That would make her freak out more, but at least he wouldn't have to deal with it.

He did a once-over around the loft, making sure everything was turned off and he hadn't forgotten anything essential. He grabbed his coat, checking his pocket to make sure his ticket was in his wallet, then wrapped his ever-present scarf around his neck. He looked around once more, taking it all in, trying to fix it in his memory. It was strange to think he may never come back.

He replayed a few of his more fond memories that had taken place here. Angel drumming out a solo on the living-room end table. Collins clapping him roughly on his back with a laugh when he'd choked on a glass of Stoli after trying it for the first time. Maureen giving him her real smile for once, not the fake one she was constantly throwing at people. That small glance him and Joanne had shared when they'd realized that they had a lot more in common than either of them would like to admit. Benny laughing and joking with the rest of them before he'd married Alison. Mimi coming in from the fire escape to say hi, even though she knew that Roger was out. Roger sitting on the couch strumming out the notes of Musetta's Waltz awkwardly. Roger…

Mark felt bad about just leaving like this. It was the way it had to be though. And even though it was some consolation that he knew Roger would tie him to a chair with broken guitar strings to keep him from leaving, he knew, deep down, that Roger didn't really need him anymore. Maybe he hadn't ever really needed him.

It started all closing in on him, the enormity of what he was about to do making him balk for a moment. Finally, he forced his fingers to close around his single bag and the case that held all his film equipment and camera. His mind screaming at him to stop, to turn around, that it wasn't too late to stay, he walked determinedly over to the door, locking it behind him and heading for the stairs.

The only thing left out of place, the only sign that he'd left at all, was a single sheet of paper on the kitchen counter held down by the handle of a broken mug.

* * *

_Present: _

Roger's boots echoed into the stair-well as he clomped up them at a run, taking two at a time. He reached the loft, pulling out the extra key he'd insisted on making when he'd moved out over a year ago. He slipped it into the lock, breathing in harshly as tumblers moved. He flung the door open and rushed over the thresh-hold.

A small pang of hope went through him as he realized all the furniture was still there, and none of it seemed to have been moved. But he could tell something was very wrong. The first place he ran was to Mark's room. The bed was still there, made, the blankets folded over it in smooth lines that made Roger wonder how the hell Mark could make a bed so neatly. Everything looked like Mark was still here, like he was out in the other room, ready to come in with Joanne and Maureen, laughing at him and saying, "Jesus, Roger! You're so gullible!"

But it was too silent. Even though Mark was a quiet guy at home, Roger had always been able to sense his presence at the very least. But there was nothing. It was too still, too stagnant, too _dead_.

His hands shaking, Roger reached for the drawers of Mark's dresser. Slowly, he pulled the top drawer open. The lump that had been forming in his throat choked at him, causing him to nearly heave with a dry sob when he saw that it was empty. He pulled the others open, praying that he was wrong, but they were all just as empty as the first one.

Feeling like he was living some sort of nightmare, Roger dragged his feet and moved back into the living room. It was then he realized what had struck him as being wrong when he'd first come in. Usually, Mark left rolls of film laying around, hastily scribbled notes, maybe even his zoom lense sitting on the table. But none of it was there. The loft was completely clean.

Roger collapsed onto the couch, his elbows propped on his knees, hands coming up to cover his mouth as he tried to stop himself from hyperventilating. Mark was gone. Mark was really gone. His mind still railed against the idea, screaming in denial even as he saw the proof.

Mark couldn't be gone. He had been the only one to always be there, the only one who had stuck unflinchingly around no matter what. Even after the drugs, the disease, the withdrawal and the rage he'd had for the whole world, Mark had stayed. Mark had been there. Mark was a constant, like the sun rising in the morning, the seasons turning. Mark was the only person he could always depend on.

Except that now he couldn't. Now he had to face the fact that Mark might just be as human as he was, as easily frightened, as fallible as the rest of them. And that realization scared him more than he knew it should have.

"Roger?" Joanne's quiet voice broke him out of his thoughts. They'd caught up with him.

"Is he here, baby?" Maureen gasped out, from the top of the stairs, her face tinted pink after chasing him all the way here, her hair wind-blown, her hastily thrown on coat flapping out around her as she walked. Her apparent exhaustion twisted into a look of concern when she walked in and saw him. She rushed over to the couch, reaching a hand out to his shoulder. He flinched away.

"Roger, please," Joanne said softly, coming to stand next to Maureen in front of the couch.

"He's really gone," Roger whispered, a pang of panic hitting him after he'd voiced the thought aloud. Joanne sat next to him on the couch, offering contact if he wanted it, but not forcing it on him.

"I know, honey," she said softly, her big brown eyes swimming with tears.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye…" Roger whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"He asked us not to," Joanne explained. "He knew you'd try to stop him. He didn't want to make you go through that only to have him leave anyway. He would have left eventually, no matter what you tried. It killed him to not tell you, but it was killing him to stay here."

"I know it must be hard right now, Roger," Maureen said. "But, sweetie, we couldn't stop him. I don't even think we should have if we could." Roger opened his mouth to protest, but Joanne cut him off.

"He needed this, Roger," she said pleadingly. "I'm not sure why, but I do know that he needed this."

"I understand how you must be feeling, sweetie, but…" Maureen started. That was the last straw. Roger stood up violently, Joanne jumping in surprise from his sudden movement.

"How the _fuck_ do you understand how I feel!" he screamed into her face. "I just lost my best friend because you two fucks thought it was _better_ this way! He fucking abandoned me, just like everybody else did! The guy I thought I knew who he was, but he turns out to be just another asshole like the rest of them!" He turned on Maureen, eyes burning with rage.

"You of all people have no idea what Mark is, Mark _was,_ to me!" he screamed at her. "All he ever was to _you_ was a fuck-toy you could easily dispose of when you got tired of him, and then someone to use whenever it was convenient for you!" Maureen's face twisted, angry tears springing into her eyes.

"How _dare_ you!" she whispered menacingly. Joanne got up to try and calm her down, but she pulled out of her lover's grip, fists clenching at her sides. "We may have had our problems, but he was _my _friend too, you asshole! If I recall correctly, you had no problems in leaving him too, heading off to your precious Santa Fe! He's just repaid the favor." She paused for a moment, her eyes searching his, more tears falling down her face.

"And where the fuck were you, anyway!" she continued. "Off fucking groupies and partying while Mark was here, alone in this freezing fucking loft!

"We watched him get worse and worse, watched him pull farther and farther into himself, trying to coax him out long enough to get him to smile, knowing that no matter what we tried wouldn't work, because he needed someone who could understand him better! He needed _you_, Roger, but you were too fucking _busy_ to notice!"

Joanne shifted to grab Maureen, trying to pull her away from Roger, to calm her down, anything, but the diva ignored her, stepping closer until her face was inches from Roger's.

"You abandoned him before he ever abandoned you, and now you've got the balls to go all _sensitive_," her whispered words cut into him sharply. "Face it Roger, we all took him for granted, you too, and now we're paying the price. Deal with it." With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out.

Roger stared after her, stunned. Joanne stayed silent for a moment longer, then walked up to him and pulled him into a hug. He didn't return it, but he didn't resist.

"We're all hurting because of this, Roger," she whispered into his ear. "Don't let what she said get to you. She's frustrated and angry. She's probably blaming herself more than anything else. And don't worry," she leaned back, placing a gentle kiss to his cheek, "he hasn't forgotten you, and he never will. I know that, eventually, he'll be back."

Joanne let him go, stepping back and glancing out the door.

"I better go talk to her," she said apologetically. "I know you probably want to be alone right now anyway. Promise me that if you need anything, you'll call my cell? Maureen and I will come back to check on you later. Well, I'll come back to check on you. She's gonna be coming back to apologize." Roger snorted.

"The day that harpy swallows her pride long enough to apologize is the day I take up ballet," Roger rasped out, but his heart wasn't in it. Joanne stared at him pointedly, and he was about to question her when he realized what she was waiting for. "Okay, I promise I'll call if I need anything." Joanne smiled.

"Good. See you soon, Roger," and with one last kiss to his cheek, she walked out.

The sound of the door closing seemed to echo endlessly into the empty apartment. Roger stared at it for a minute, then sat back down on the couch. Maybe Maureen was right. It wasn't right for him to get mad at Mark when he was only doing something Roger himself had done many times before. He was being a hypocrite. And even though it was a shitty double-standard, he couldn't help but still feel angry.

After staring at his hands for a half-hour brought him nothing but more troubled thoughts, he got up to walk around, taking stock of the apartment. For all that it was filled with most of Mark's shit, it seemed startlingly empty.

He coughed slightly. Screaming like that always made his throat scratchy, and his eyes were irritated too from his efforts in trying to hold back angry, panicked tears. He walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. And immediately he froze in his tracks.

A slip of paper was lying on the counter held down by what looked to be the handle from one of Mark's favorite mugs. In a rush, he grabbed it, the handle clattering to the floor as he read the short note.

_Roger,_

_It's not your fault. This is something I needed to do. It's not something you could have changed, so don't agonize over it or blame yourself for it like I would. If you do, I'll worry about it, and that wouldn't get us anywhere, would it? Okay, so I'll probably worry anyway, but let me do that for both of us Just keep doing what you've been doing. _

_Gone to Santa Fe. _

_I'll call. _

_Love, _

_Mark_

The tears he'd been holding back spilled over as he read the last two sentences. He sat down heavily on the floor. That last sentence was the same two words he'd uttered to Mark before he'd left after Angel's funeral. And he knew that Mark had meant the same thing he'd meant by them. He wasn't going to call.

* * *

End of CHAPTER 2! OOO! It's heatin' up...hehehe. God, I am such a loser. Anyways... I just want you all to know that this will not be a "Roger sits around and almost dies and then Mark comes back" type thing. I won't give anything else away though. You'll just have to wait and see. 

Also, does anyone like Blake? I get all worried that my OCs suck...


	3. Chapter 3

A.N: Hey everyone! How's it going? I'm back after seeing RENT in the movie theatres for the sixth time. Cried AGAIN! Kinda pathetic. Anyway, some quick shout-outs to my reviewers before Chapter 3 commences:

Kerry: Thank you so much for your review! And don't worry, I don't plan on abandoning this fic anytime soon. It's just that finals were coming up and I had to study, so I had no real time to work on it much, curse it! I hope you enjoy chapter 3!

Angel of Ave. B: Agh! So sorry to make you cry! Or should I say, glad? I don't know. But I certainly hope you keep reading! Thanks. And I hope you see a little bit more of Blake's character in this chapter. Let me know what you think of him after! ;-)

Jacquelyn: I'm happy you liked the Collins and Mark scene. That was one of my favorite to write so far. That whole speech Collins gave him hit me one night right before I went to bed. Divine intervention, you may say? I don't know... but it was certainly a fun, if sad, scene!

The Weather Gal: Awesome that it seems that I was able to pull off some complexity! I was worried I might make them too two-dimensional. Let me know how I did in this one!

To everyone else: Thanks so much for all the great reviews! More feedback is always welcome! It definitely inspires me to write more, and if I have reviewers bugging me to do it, it gets out faster. So definitely keep the reviews coming!

And now, CHAPTER THREE! _

* * *

_

_5 days earlier: _

Mark gripped the arm rests of the seat tightly as the plane began to take off. The large whooshing sound and the slight rattling was making him nervous. Not to mention the fact that they were beginning to tilt up at an angle that was much sharper than he would have preferred it. What had he expected anyway? He'd never flown before.

As the plane leveled out and the rattling stopped, Mark began to calm down. The 'fasten seatbelts' light went out, and he quickly unbuckled the constricting thing. He looked out the window and was fascinated to see a cloud floating just past the wing. He wished he could get his camera out of the cubby above where they stored the carry-ons. But to do that, he'd have to wedge his way past the portly woman with a chronic wheeze sitting next to him. Not a comfortable situation.

He leaned back into the plush seat with a sigh. He still couldn't believe he was doing this! He hadn't felt this anxious, alone and excited all at once since he'd left for Brown years ago. That time had been a little different though. He'd had hardly any of the emotional baggage he lugged around now, and him and his roommate had hit it off right away. A pang of regret hit him as he remembered how Benny had been when he'd first met him. Time changed a lot of things.

It was kind of odd to think that he had Benny himself to thank for the fact that he wouldn't be faced with the daunting prospect of weeks of travel by bus. Mark had wanted to throttle Maureen when she'd admitted to telling their ex-friend of Mark's plans. But it had turned out for the better, hadn't it?

_3 weeks earlier: _

Mark stared across the table at Benny, wondering for the thousandth time that night why he had agreed to this. When he'd gotten the message on his machine asking him to meet Benny at the Life Café he'd been shocked, but had promptly called back and agreed to it anyway. So here he was, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them after they'd placed their drink orders, Mark achingly aware of the differences between them.

Benny sat stiffly in his custom-tailored suit, the cuff rising back to show an expensive looking watch when he reached for his water-glass. Somehow, even after everything that had happened, Benny had wheedled his way back into Muffy's good graces. They'd been separated for a little over a month, but never filed for divorce. Benny's Cyber Studio was up and running, had been for nearly two years, and Mark was sickeningly aware of the fact that it was probably going to make him millions.

Mark slouched back into his chair, his arms crossing over his chest, the scratchy sweater rubbing into his skin. Mark wasn't as destitute as he used to be, but he still was nowhere near Benny's caliber. _Today 4 U: Proof Positive_ had made him a little money when it won awards at a few local independent film festivals, and since then his more recent films had had a slightly wider audience. None of his films had gotten any real widespread syndication, but he almost liked it better that way. _Today 4 U_ had even had a few hundred copies printed and sold courtesy of the marginal success it'd had at the film festivals. That had given him enough to live for the past few years, and recently he'd gone back to working for Buzzline. However, all the money he made from _that _horrible travesty of a job went to saving up for his eventual move.

Joanne had helped him out in making sure all his affairs were in order, so he'd saved money on having to pay for a lawyer. All in all, he had roughly over ten thousand dollars for him to start over with. He knew how fast that money would be used up, however, so he had to make sure he spent sparingly. It also meant finding a job as quickly as possible after the move. And since he was starting over _completely_, that meant new apartment and new furniture, not to mention electric, plumbing and A.C./heating bills.

Their drink orders came after a couple minutes. Mark sipped at his tea, peering at Benny over the rim of the mug. Aw, to hell with it. Better to get this over with.

"So, why _exactly _did you want to see me?" he asked, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice. "Maureen fessed up that she told you I was leaving, but that hardly gives you much reason to call me after nearly a year of hearing jack-shit from you. And don't give me the whole 'for old time's sake' routine. Neither of us is that sentimental." Benny looked up with a nervous laugh.

"Right to the point as always," he said quietly. "I forget sometimes that bureaucracy, politics and financial agendas don't matter to everyone." Mark let that one slide instead of making some obvious comments. He didn't come here to pick a fight.

"Sometimes I really regret it, you know?" Benny said to him, glancing away, his face softening. "Believe it or not, there are times I really miss you guys. It may sound fake and sentimental, and I know you probably couldn't give a rat's ass, but I miss how we used to be, before all this…" He trailed off, looking up guiltily. Mark saw an almost imperceptible wince, almost as if Benny was expecting condemnation.

"I do too, sometimes," Mark admitted. "But we can't go back."

"I know," Benny said, his expression almost sorrowful. "After Mimi and Collins went, that really just drove that fact home to me. We can't go back. And the reason I asked you here is to let you know before you left, too. Maybe it's my way of exorcising old ghosts, but I want to tell _you_ what I never had the courage to tell _them_." Mark raised an eyebrow, lowering his arms from across his chest.

"And what's that?" Benny almost looked like he might bolt for a second, but then took a deep breath, looked straight into Mark's eyes.

"I'm sorry." Mark couldn't help it. He broke into a real grin.

"You? Sorry, Benny?" he said kindly with a laugh. "What happened to your whole capitalist-punk-bad-ass attitude?" And for the first time in a long time, Mark heard Benny laugh, too.

"Let's just say I'm putting it on hold for a little while. Enough time to say goodbye to an old friend." Mark's face went sober again.

"About that, Benny…" Benny lifted his hand in a placating gesture, cutting Mark off.

"I don't need any explanations, Mark," he said. "I'm perfectly aware of the fact that I'll probably never see you again. I just wanted you to know that I wish you luck." With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, tossing it into the film-maker's lap. Mark's eyes widened when he opened it.

"Benny, I can't take this," he said, handing the envelope full of hundreds back over the table. Benny didn't take it.

"Use it to buy a plane ticket, or something," he stated, taking a drink of his Coke. "I got the feeling you're gonna be going a hell of a ways far from here, and I'm sure it wouldn't be the most pleasant thing in the world to take a bus. Even if you can afford it, which I'm sure you could, consider it a sort of parting gift; the only kind a punk-ass capitalist like me understands." Mark smiled and pocketed the cash.

"Well, I guess… thanks, Benny."

"Don't mention it. And trust me, Mark, you're going to do fine. You're better than this God-forsaken city anyway. I've always believed that."

_Back on the plane: _

Mark sighed again. That certainly had been one of the strangest encounters ever. But it proved that Benny still had some of his old self left, and that, if anything, gave Mark a little hope.

The rattling of the trolley being pushed down the isles jolted Mark out of his thoughts. He promptly ordered the strongest thing they had on the beverage cart, reaching into his pocket for cash, then swallowing his drink in one large gulp. It was nice of Benny to pay for the ticket and all, but he decided he'd never fly again. It just didn't seem _natural_ to be this high up in the air when he didn't have wings. But it's good to experience new things, right?

_You're better than this God-forsaken city anyway. _

Benny's words came back to him. He wondered what exactly he'd meant by that. Mark was pretty damn sure he wasn't better than much of anything. Oh, well. No need to spend hours wondering about it, right? Mark groaned. He wasn't going to be able to get the thoughts from roiling around in his head for days.

He tried to distract himself. Almost immediately, his thoughts turned to Roger. Like that was any better. He was worried how he was going to take his leaving. He hoped Roger would be alright with it, hoped he wouldn't get too upset. There was even that illogical hope mixed with fear that Roger wouldn't be affected at all, that he'd barely even notice.

_Stop it!_ he yelled at himself. _Forget regret, right? You need to stop living in the past. You need to move on. For all of them. _

He still remembered what Collins had told him. And he meant to keep his promise. He couldn't keep detaching like he had been, burying himself in his work. He needed to open up again. He needed to try and give all that Collins had been so sure that he could. And in order to do that, he had to give everything else up, start over. There was too much old pain left in New York for him to do what Collins, what he himself, wanted to do. But there was still that doubt in the back of his mind that said he was running away, not starting over.

He nodded off into a light doze, finally waking up when the announcement came over the intercom that they were approaching the runway. The 'fasten seatbelts' sign came back on.

Mark looked out in anticipation upon the twinkling lights of his new home. He was ready for this. He had to keep telling himself that.

_It's time to start living again. _

_3 months later: _

Roger sat in a corner booth glaring across the bar at nothing in particular. The fake tree that rose over the booth from behind blocked him mostly from the view of the other patrons, shadows obscuring his figure, but he could still see them. He liked it that way. He looked down at his glass and swirled the melting ice around in his Jack and Coke. What a great fucking night.

He wondered, probably for the millionth time since Mark left, how things had come to this. Why was it, really, that Mark had left in the first place? For all that Joanne had tried to explain it to him, he still wasn't really sure. Maureen seemed to understand more on the emotional level as to Mark's reasoning, but every time he tried to talk to her, they ended up screaming at each other. He guessed it was probably because they both blamed themselves the most for what had happened, and both of them weren't particularly good at dealing with guilt. What a fucked up family they were.

Roger looked over to where Maureen and Joanne were sitting at the main bar. They'd left about a half hour ago, uncomfortable with his silence and brooding glares. When they'd asked if he wanted to go with them, he'd waved them away. They should feel surprised he'd even come out at all. He couldn't get over it as quickly as they had, or put on a front and act like everything was fine, back to normal since Roger was back in town. He suspected Maureen was putting on an act. He glimpsed small flashes of pain cross her face now and again, a sad smile she'd adopt when she thought no one was looking. Maureen was good at hiding that sort of thing, though. Roger wasn't.

Roger had tried to blame Mark, to be angry at Mark, he really had. It had worked for the first week or so. His anger had allowed him to distance himself from it, like it had in April's case. But, like it had before, once the anger, the hatred, the indignant feeling of rejection was used up, all that was left was an emptiness and a stinging, aching pain.

When he'd tried to hold on to that anger, he found he couldn't. Memories would surface at the worst times, right when he had almost worked himself into an acceptable rage. Mark smiling that lopsided grin when first introducing himself to Roger. Mark laughing and patting him on the back after a good show, before his drug addiction. Mark holding his sobbing, shaking frame, calmly calling the paramedics when they'd found April in the bath-tub. Mark wiping down his sweating face with a cool washcloth on one of the bad nights after he'd gotten back from rehab, holding his hand, a source of strength during the last stages of his withdrawal. Mark gently coaxing him out of the walls he'd built around himself afterwards, inviting him out even though he knew the answer was no, reminding him to take his pills when he would have rather just let his tired body rot, helping him to forget, even for a few moments, the disease slowly festering in his body, waiting to claim his life. Mark quietly encouraging him to follow his dreams when Mimi had died, and never really saying it, but just looking at Roger in a way that made Roger know he was fit to burst with pride in his friend.

And then he'd had to deal with the fact that Mark, the one who'd always been there, was gone.

Roger watched as Blake sidled up to Joanne, his flirting obvious even all the way over here. Maureen sent him a withering glare which he ignored, and it even seemed that Joanne was flirting back. Maybe it was her form of revenge for all the guys and girls Maureen still sent swooning. Either that, or she'd had more than her share to drink tonight. Probably a combination of both. Roger wondered how the diva was dealing with being on the outside looking in. From the look on her face, it didn't seem like she enjoyed it all that much. Maybe she'd keep that in mind the next time she came across a woman in rubber.

He'd tried to find Mark when the anger had disappeared and the pain set in. He realized now that Mark hadn't really gone to Santa Fe at all, but had more likely used that explanation in his letter so that Roger could maybe understand why he'd done what he'd done. When Roger had run away to Santa Fe, he'd needed time. He'd needed distance to sort himself out, sort his feelings out. The big difference was that Mark had planned more than he ever had, and Mark had prepared. It seemed that Mark meant to be gone for good.

Roger slammed the rest of his drink back, trying to douse the burning feeling of panic in his gut. He'd spent a couple weeks trying to track down where Mark had gone, much to the objection of Joanne and the grudging disapproval of Maureen. Mark didn't _want_ to be found, they said. He could do more damage than good trying to find him. Roger had done what he'd always done when it came to them. He didn't listen.

He remembered talking to every random acquaintance of Mark's he could find, even going so far as to go down to see Alexi Darling at Buzzline. He'd done everything short of printing up fliers. He couldn't even file a missing persons report, because Mark technically wasn't really missing. It was perfectly legal for an adult to pack up and leave under their own decision, even if they left people who loved them, who they loved, behind. And Roger hadn't been able to find where Mark had gone. Either no one knew, or no one was talking. Mark had hidden his trail well.

Back across the bar, Maureen had finally wedged herself in between Blake and Joanne to form some kind of shield. Roger was almost amused at how possessive 'honey-bear' could get. Jeff was talking with some blonde chick on the other side of them, probably bragging about the Well Hungarians and the important role the drummer played. Seemed as if he was doing pretty well tonight; his brown eyes sparkled as the girl laughed at a joke he'd made. Roger wondered if this was how Mark felt behind his camera, observing his friends, but not really interacting with them.

Finally, in desperation, Roger had given in and called Mark's parents in Scarsdale. What a mistake _that _had been. Apparently, his parents had been frantically trying to reach Mark for the past month; they hadn't even known he'd left town. Roger had spent two hours trying to calm down a screeching Mrs. Cohen before finally giving up and letting her wail into the phone after setting the receiver down on the coffee table and going to strum at his guitar for a while. He checked periodically every ten to fifteen minutes to see if she was done. After she'd tapered off, he'd explained everything that he knew, trying to assure her that Mark was probably fine. It felt odd. It was almost as if he was trying to assure himself at the same time.

And why _was_ he so worried, so upset about it? Mark was a grown man, he had the right to make his own decisions. Mark could take care of himself, hell, he'd taken care of Roger better than Roger ever could have. Mark was his best friend, his brother. Shouldn't he be happy for Mark; happy that he was finally trying to forget the shitty life they'd had here, trying to help himself instead of everyone else for once? And even though he knew he should be, he couldn't help the bile rising in his throat, the sick feeling of guilt, the pang of loss almost as profound as when he'd finally lost Mimi.

Roger knew that he'd been neglecting Mark. That he'd been wrapped up in his own life, the success of the band, blind to the pain Mark must have been going through. Thinking back, he could remember how Mark's smiles had seemed more fake, his laughs more forced in the last few months. But at the time, he hadn't wanted to see that. Everything had been going so well for him, he wanted to believe it was going well for Mark too.

A part of him realized that he'd not been ignoring Mark so much as trying to show Mark. Show Mark that he was okay, that he didn't have to worry about him, that Mark , Mimi and the others had saved him, had made it so he could live what was left of his life without regrets. And he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he didn't want to be a burden anymore, to anyone, but especially not to Mark. He was living _for _them, he was living because he wanted to try and give back some of that love that they'd given him.

But he'd royally fucked that up, hadn't he? Mark had taken it as rejection, Mark had thought that Roger didn't want Mark in his life anymore, was too busy for Mark. Didn't Mark see that there was no one more important than him left in Roger's life? Didn't he see, as selfish as it was, that Roger _needed _him? Would always need him?

Blake looked up from his escapades at the bar and glanced over at Roger. Roger glared back at him, and a frown marred his friend's brow. He turned a smile on Joanne and Maureen and excused himself, picked up a couple drinks, then started sauntering over to Roger's side of the bar. Well, shit.

"And what the hell is keeping you lurking in the shadows like a God damn vampire?" Blake asked as he slid into the booth next to Roger, ignoring him when he grunted noncommittally, obviously wanting to be left alone. He stared at the lead singer in silence for a few moments.

"What the hell do you want, Blake?" Roger finally asked in an irritated tone, staring at his empty glass.

"I want to know why the fuck one of my best bros has been so intent on brooding like a God damn Soap Opera queen for the past few months," Blake replied, stealing the glass from Roger and replacing it with a full one.

"Jesus, Blake. If you're _that_ fucking stupid, I don't really feel like enlightening you," Roger growled out, slamming back the fresh drink.

"Shit, man. I _know_ Mark's gone. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire fucking city knew Mark's gone with the way you've been freaking out about it. What I want to know is why you're _still_ tripping over it, even after three months."

"Fuck you," Roger hissed. "He was my best friend, Blake. You know that. I don't think I have to bore you with a fucking sob story about all the shit I went through with him. And I wasn't there when he needed me." Roger almost jumped when he felt Blake rest a hand gently on his shoulder.

"Yes you were, man," Blake said. "I may not know Mark as well as I know you, but I think I understood him enough to know that the type of friendship he had with you wouldn't be fucked because of some God damn misunderstanding. You were tight with him, bro. Even to the end. Shit, you called him more than I call half the bitches I sleep with. Did you ever think that maybe the reason he left had nothing to do with you at all?"

"Then why didn't he tell me?" Roger asked, looking at his friend, so close to breaking it scared him. "Why did he leave?"

"I don't know, man. But I _do _know that he wouldn't want you to be fucking pissin' and moanin' like you have been. Mark's a good guy, Roger. He wouldn't want you to get all hung up on this like you are. I'm sure if he could see you now, he'd wanna kick your ass almost as bad as I do." Roger snorted.

"Think about it, though," Blake continued after a while. "I'm sure Mark has a lot of deep shit he has to deal with right now. Does he need to be worrying that his best friend is gonna waste away to nothing before he gets back? He's always been strong for you, Roger. I know he has. Now it's your turn to be strong for him." Roger's face softened, and he looked up to meet his friend's gaze.

"I miss him," he admitted softly, hating the fact that his eyes were burning. "He was always there, Blake, and I miss him." He fiddled with the ring on his left hand, a nervous habit he'd acquired over the years.

"Of course you miss him," Blake replied, reaching over and tapping Roger's ring for emphasis. "You always miss people who are that important to you. But Mark's gonna be back, Roger. I know he will be. Sure, he's tryin' to run away right now, but he'll figure shit out and be back. You gotta believe that." Roger froze, that small hope he'd tried to extinguish lighting in his stomach.

"And until he gets back," Blake finished with a grin, "you gotta stop bein' such a whiny bitch. I'm sure as hell not gonna put up with your shit the way Mark did. Now, get your ass over to the bar with the rest of us. I think I've actually got a chance with Joanne tonight!"

Roger couldn't help but laugh, the first laugh he'd allowed himself to have in the past few months, as Blake dragged him out of the booth and over to the bar. Maybe Blake was right. He wasn't alone. This didn't have to be so bad after all.

* * *

More to come soon! Exams are this week, then it's winter break! WOOT! Keep the reviews coming. I really appreciate them! 


	4. Chapter 4

YAYY! A quick A.N to some of my lovely reviewers:

SuperiorityComplex88: I'm so glad you found my story, too! And so happy that you like it! I'm also excited you find Blake hilarious... I have mixed feelings about him, I'm afraid. I'm also glad that the time switching isn't confusing you. I've decided to add the time of Mark's departure as a benchmark for future scenes. Hopefully that will help to stop the confusion even more!

kitty: Trust me, I'm just as anxious to get to the M/R scenes as no doubt you are. Racing towards them as fast as I can!

Hoshi Kokoro: I must echo you in your review in my response to it... Wow... just wow... I'm so glad I was able to bring a little of your faith back to Rent fics, or maybe just mine, I dunno. I'm so incredibly flattered that you were touched by my story as much as you were. I hope to be able to keep up your good opinion of me. I was also very surprised to find that you heard a lot of praise for me, which prompted you to read it. It kinda makes me feel as though I have somewhat of a following or something... hopefully it won't blow up my ego too much! I can't thank you enough for the great review! Please let me know what you think in the future!

Dead Cat: Finals are over, so hopefully I'll be able to bring you more! YAY! I also enjoy your pen name immensely. It gave me a good chuckle.

Nicole: Teehee! So glad you're addicted to my story. I, however, am addicted to reviews and whoring myself out for them. Let me know what you think of this chapter! XD

LJstagflower4e: Thanks! I love the fact that Mark left too, which I guess is why I wrote the entire thing in the first place. I felt like he should stand up for himself a little more... and having buckets of angst poured in can't be bad either! Glad to think you find it original too. I can't stand cliche fics... ugh. Luckily, it seems I haven't created one!

Joe: So glad your vast intelligence could figure out how to get here on your own. ;) Oh, and btw, when did you start using internet slang and abreviations? Weren't you always anal about using correct grammar?

Everyone else: Thank you soooo much for all your reviews! Keep them coming, and I promise that I will try to reply to everyone individually as long as you give me something to write to you about. But the occasional, "Good job, I like it!" is always appreciated too!

AND... CHAPTER FOUR!

_

* * *

2 months earlier, 1 month after Mark's departure:_

He walked through the bustling crowds with a confidence that bordered on arrogance; as far as he was concerned, he owned the sidewalk. Freshly shined dress shoes made a sharp clacking noise on the cement, their formality muted by light, form-fitting jeans. A black tank top worn underneath an almost sheer white dress shirt completed his ensemble. Hair so black it nearly took on a blue hue in direct sunlight flowed slightly past his shoulders, accented with stripes of bright blonde highlights. In a city full of some of the most beautiful people on Earth, he regularly turned more than a few heads with his looks. Today, however, those gazes were being attracted by a rather loud conversation he was having on his cell.

"Look, George, I've told you once, I'll tell you again. Fuck off!" he exclaimed, his tone tinged by a hardly noticeable British accent, the only remnant of a long-forgotten childhood spent in London. He quickened his pace, his irritation showing in the jagged gait.

"No!" he shouted after a moment. "Look, I'm already late for a meeting. I swear to God, if you keep calling me I'll have a restraining order taken out. It's over!"

After that final statement, he promptly hung up, having just reached his destination. He walked into the small café without bothering to ask for a table. He came here often enough that he could navigate the whole place backwards with his eyes closed. He slid into his regular booth, looking at the opposite occupant almost apologetically.

"Sorry, Beth-dear," he offered, dropping the seldom used endearment to show her he actually meant it. "I was… detained. Did you wait long?"

"Only 20 minutes," she said. "I've waited longer. Of course, in _those_ cases I actually got laid. Something tells me that that's not going to happen this time. Unless, of course, you're drinking earlier than usual? " She gave a seductive grin and a wink.

For a woman in her early forties, Beth was still quite good-looking. Her natural chestnut hair was cropped short, accentuating high cheekbones and green eyes, that could, on occasion, narrow into a glare that was quite discomforting to be on the receiving end of. She was a force to be reckoned with, and didn't take shit from anyone. However, she still had an incredibly sarcastic sense of humor and a biting wit that was second only to his. She was one of the few people he could stand, and one of the fewer still that he actually liked. He smiled.

"Sadly, no," he said with a mock pout. "Besides, I try to make it a point to not mix business with pleasure." Beth laughed.

"Chris, love, sometimes I wonder if you'd be so cold to me if I happened to be a little more lacking in the chest area and had something a little more… substantial in other areas."

"One of the world's great mysteries, I suppose," he said with a wistful sigh.

"What was it that kept you, anyway? If I recall correctly, you're always rather anal about punctuality."

"Ah…" he searched for an acceptable explanation, "let's just say I had to convince a persistent roach that my apartment is not an ideal place to live, particularly if it doesn't wish to be stepped on." Her eyes widened in dismay.

"Don't tell me George has been bothering you again! I thought he moved out months ago."

"He did. It seems he didn't really get the picture, though."

"Damn. From boyfriend to ex to stalker. It's really too cliché. I thought he was more original than that."

"Please, don't use the term boyfriend. Not even ex-boyfriend. Ex-fuck toy. Anything else is too good for him," Chris stated with a hint of bitterness, his gray eyes staring pointedly at an imaginary spot on the table.

"Sorry," Beth said quietly, placing a hand over his comfortingly. "He burned you pretty damn bad, didn't he?" He pulled his hand away gently, offering a slight smile.

"The past is the past," he said. "We won't get anywhere bitching about it. Let's get down to business."

"Oh, yes!" Beth exclaimed with a laugh. "I swear, you always manage to distract me. Shows my wonderful leadership skills. It's no fun being your boss."

"Don't feel bad, sweetie," he said with a flip of his hair. "I have that affect on the best of people." She coughed.

"Well, if you're done stroking your ego, take this."

She tossed a small slip of paper onto the table that upon closer inspection seemed to be a ticket. Chris picked it up and looked closer.

"A film festival? What the fuck is this?"

"You're on scouting duty. I know you don't like having to do the grunt work, but with Tom out, we need a fresh eye in the filming department, probably even a new DP a few weeks down the line. You know we're low budget, so we need to find someone talented, but unknown so we don't have to take a huge chunk out of our funds for salary."

"Okay, I understand why we need a new camera man. But why do _I_ have to find one? I'm the talent, for Chrissakes!" She patted his arm consolingly.

"I know, dearie, but that's the luck of the draw. Everyone else even remotely qualified can't make it on such short notice. I _know_ you don't have anything to do tonight but go pick up some sorry S.O.B. at the nearest club, and we really need to find someone within the next week or so. I would put out an ad, but then every idiot fresh off the bus from Pleasantville would be knocking on our door, and quite honestly, no one has the time to sift through all those applications."

"But Beth!" he whined dramatically. "I _hate_ indie film festivals! I can only stand so much worthless crap at a time! It'll _kill_ me to sit through _hours_ of droning documentaries and shitty screenplays!"

"So find me the one that isn't shitty or droning." Chris groaned. "Stop whining. Here comes the waitress. I'll pay and let you get anything you want if you promise me you'll go and find me at least one likely prospect." That did it. She knew Chris simply adored breaking the old adage, 'There's no such thing as a free lunch.' For someone so complicated, he could be frighteningly simple at times. He brightened up immediately.

"Well, I suppose I could make an exception this once. But only because you can be so bloody convincing when you want to be." Beth grinned.

"Of course."

* * *

_One week later: _

Chris drummed his fingers on the table, his nails tapping out an erratic beat. He stopped for a moment to pull out a silver pocket watch and check the time. Ten minutes to. He started tapping again. Beth moaned.

"Jesus CHRIST, Chris! Knock it off! You're driving me nuts!" she exclaimed, reaching over to still his fingers. He stuck his tongue out, dodged her hand, and continued to tap.

"Can't help it," he explained to the beat. "You know how I get when I wait."

"And when you're actually excited about something for once," Beth said with a sigh. "I can't believe you like this guy's work as much as you say you do. You _never_ praise anyone that much… well, unless they're you." Chris grinned.

"Let's just say I was pleasantly surprised," he offered, remembering the night a week past.

_One week earlier: _

After sitting through almost three hours of nothing but complete drivel, his eyes were drooping. He was very tempted to just fall asleep. Sadly, that was impossible because a spring from the cheap seat he was currently occupying was digging into his back.

He couldn't believe what he was doing in the name of his job. Chris wondered if he'd get paid overtime for this. He supposed everyone had to make a living somehow, but this was far from an ideal way to spend a Friday night as far as he was concerned. And according to the program, there were three more films yet to go. A tired sigh escaped him.

"_December 24, 1989, 9 PM Eastern Standard Time. From here on in, I shoot without a script. See if anything comes of it, 'stead of my old shit…" _

He was shocked out of his petulant thoughts by the words coming out of the speakers. The voice sounded almost as tired and bored as he felt. There was something else about it that caught his attention, too. Something he couldn't really put his finger on.

He looked up to the screen to see different scenes flashing by. Traffic in a big city. An old woman smiling into the camera. A homeless man curled up on a mattress. Suddenly, the flashing scenes stopped, the camera focusing on a grizzled looking young man tuning a guitar. That clear voice broke in, raised a little to be heard over the twanging.

"_First shot, Roger, tuning the Fender guitar. He hasn't played in a year. He's just coming back from half a year of withdrawal."_

Chris quickly glanced down at the program to read the name of the film. _Today 4 U: Proof Positive_. A slight smile broke out on his face; the first one of the evening. Finally. Something interesting.

_Back in the conference room: _

After seeing the entire film, Chris had left immediately. He didn't need to see anymore. He had found the 'likely prospect'. After getting contact information from the MC, he'd pulled out his cell phone and called Beth.

She'd set up a meeting with the director for as soon as she could fit it in. That was today. In… he glanced at his watch again… eight minutes as a matter of fact. He'd insisted on being there. He wanted to meet this 'Mark Cohen' character.

Chris had been surprised at not only the talent that had gone into the technical aspects, but the feeling and honesty in the film. The themes were edgy, new and gripping. The subjects were achingly real and reached out easily to the audience. The fact that the filmmaker was so close to the 'stars' of the film made it that much more personal.

It was simple, but brilliant. Documenting a year in the life of the people around you was such a seemingly easy thing to do; probably why no one had ever bothered doing it before. Chris smirked. It certainly didn't hurt that the person filming it had chosen to surround himself with people more compelling and interesting than most screenwriters could hope to create.

And even after five years in what many reputed to be the most heartless city in America, Chris had found himself moved almost to tears at points. Apparently, he wasn't as desensitized to suffering and loss as he thought he was. Even the optimistic message that would probably be described as 'sappy' by most critics had struck a chord deep within him. Funny. He'd seen almost every pitiful, disgusting aspect of human nature in his line of work, and yet he could still be reduced to a hopeful, weepy little girl by a filmmaker from New York. Just showed how fucking good the guy actually was.

Chris was jolted out of his thoughts when the secretary buzzed in over the intercom.

"Miss Vine, there's a Mark Cohen here to see you."

"Send him in," Beth replied, then glanced over at Chris. "Well, here he is. I do hope he doesn't disappoint."

"He won't," Chris surprised both Beth and himself by saying immediately. He had so much confidence in this guy and he hadn't even met him? Damn, maybe he was getting soft. Beth raised an eyebrow.

Before she could say anything, the door to the conference room opened and the man in question walked in. Now Chris was the one raising an eyebrow.

The guy was barely more than a kid; he didn't look a day older than twenty at the most. His small frame was covered by a cheap suit, his short blonde hair spiked slightly in the front. He had cheekbones that would look too sharp or high on anyone else, and bulky glasses framed the bluest pair of eyes Chris had ever seen. He thought he recognized him from a few scenes in the film itself. And holy shit, he was fucking _cute_. In any other situation, Chris would have been hitting on him almost immediately. This could prove to be a challenge.

Chris caught himself gaping. Cute _and _talented, now that he thought about it. Maybe he'd have to rewrite his whole, 'never mix work and play' rule.

"Mr. Cohen, welcome," Beth was saying, gesturing for him to take a seat, "I'm Bethany Vine, and this is my associate and the host of _Vivre_, Christian Wilson."

Mark shook both of their hands in turn then sat, looking to Beth.

"Nice to meet you both," he said in that same clear voice Chris recognized from _Today 4 U._

"Likewise," Beth said with a smile. "I must tell you, I've been quite anxious to meet you. Chris here has been raving about your film since he saw it last week. And between you and me, he wouldn't compliment God on Creation if he could get away with it without being struck by lightening. Naturally, I could hardly wait to see someone of _your_ status." Chris snorted.

"Beth, love, stop buttering the poor boy up before he even has a chance to look over the contract. I'm sure he's smart enough to not be taken in by flattery."

"Unlike you," Beth stated with a mock glare.

"Yes, well, even Achilles had his heel," Chris sighed, propping his chin on his right hand after placing his elbow on the table, "and even I must admit I have a weakness or two." He grinned at Mark, who had been smiling at the exchange.

"But as Beth was saying, I loved your film," Chris went on after a moment, leaning back in his chair. He stared at his knees. He had never been good at giving honest compliments to someone he wasn't trying to get in bed with… yet. "In all honesty, I don't believe I've ever seen anything quite like it. Buttering up aside, I have to congratulate you on a wonderful piece of work." He looked up to see that Mark was actually _blushing_ slightly. Alright, he was _definitely _rewriting that rule.

"Ah… thank you," the filmmaker stammered after a moment. "I'm still amazed at the fact that it's done as well as it has."

"No need to be _modest_, Mr. Cohen. When I love something as much as I loved your film, you can be sure it's incredible," Chris said with a wink, doing a mental victory dance when Mark's blush deepened. "I don't hand out empty praise, and I'll be the first person to tell you if something is shit." Beth laughed.

"In _excruciating _detail at that," she added. "Never ask for Chris's opinion on anything unless you want the brutal truth of it." Mark smiled.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. "I'm glad I could create something that would meet your high standards, Mr. Wilson." Chris visibly cringed.

"Please, not Mr. Wilson," he snorted. "Mr. Wilson is my father. You can call me Chris if you like. Everyone else seems to."

"Actually, would you mind if I call you Christian?"

"Not at all. Why?"

"Oh," Mark said with a slight smirk, "it just seems a shame to take a name like Christian and turn it into something as ordinary as 'Chris'." Chris's eyes widened slightly and he smiled. Okay, not cute. He was fucking _adorable_.

"Alright, boys," Beth said after clearing her throat exaggeratedly. "Enough flirting. Let's get down to business." Chris took her jab in stride, but Mark's blush was suddenly back with a vengeance.

"I'm not sure how familiar you are with our show, Mr. Cohen," Beth continued after giving Mark a moment to compose himself, "but _Vivre TV _is local for the most part. We cover the whole state, and recently we've begun to expand. We're a news show though, and I say this with no offense intended, we aren't quite as sensationalist as _Buzzline_. I see from the resume you faxed over that you worked on and off for them over a three year period?"

"Sadly, yes," Mark said with a sigh, "ashamed as I am to admit it. I needed the money, as cliché as that sounds." Beth gave him a slightly sympathetic look.

"Well, I'm sure many of us have stooped much lower than that to put food on the table," she said.

"Not me," Chris put in with a good-natured grin. Beth glared at him.

"Yes, well, we all can't be as privileged as certain stuck-up Brits. The only reason _you've_ had to go without eating is the occasional vanity-induced diet."

"You wound me, Beth," Chris stated dryly. "Besides, I must look good for the camera, mustn't I?"

"And sometimes I think that's the _only _thing you're good for," Beth scoffed. "Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, I was about to continue my summary of our operation. The reason I'm so keen to get you on board, Mr. Cohen, is that from what Chris has told me, your film's major points seemed to align quite nicely with our mission statement. We are targeting a younger audience here; I like to think of us as a cross between MTV and CNN. Your youthful perspective and edgy ideas are perfect for _Vivre_."

She paused, pulling a relatively thin packet of papers out of her briefcase and sliding it across the table. Mark picked it up and leafed through it quickly.

"The complete outline of what we're proposing for you is in there, along with a summary of your duties and the salary you can expect. I try to keep things fairly simple as far as the legalities go, so it shouldn't be too confusing. Your position would also leave you open for promotion rather quickly, as our current DP will be leaving in a month or so.

"I also keep the contracts as open as I can, so that you can leave without much hassle if you should choose so. I understand that we are a small show, and most people coming to this city have larger ambitions. I like to be honest with people as far as what they're getting into. The salary isn't incredible, but I hope you find it adequate. Of course, along with promotion would come a pay raise. If you're new to the city, this could be an ideal opportunity for you; a stepping-stone if you will. While I hate to see my people go, we're a pretty close-knit family here, and I don't begrudge them any successes they may be able to acquire after working for us."

Beth stopped, allowing Mark a few more moments to look over the contract. After a minute or two, she said,

"You don't have to decide anything now. You can take the contract with you. I just ask that you get back to me within a week, as we do need that position filled ASAP."

Mark looked up from perusing the contract with a grin.

"Actually, I don't think I need to take it with me," he said. "I'm prepared to sign right now." Chris raised his eyebrows.

"Are you sure? After only looking at it for a few minutes? Don't you want to go through it with your lawyer or something?" he asked.   
"A friend of mine is a lawyer, actually," Mark explained. "And believe me, it would be hard to spend as much time with her as I did in the last couple years without picking up a few things. I'll take it."

Chris glanced at Beth. After she gave him a nod, he reached for a pen, passing it over to Mark. Before letting it go so Mark could sign, however, he locked eyes with him and gave a final warning.

"Just so you know what you're getting yourself into, I want to let you know that you'll be working almost exclusively with me. I play the part of host and head reporter in this circus. Are you sure you'll be able to handle that?"

Chris would _not _admit his heart nearly skipped a beat at the smile Mark gave him. Snatching the pen, he quickly signed the contract and handed it to Beth, then looked back at Chris.

"I'll take my chances."

* * *

_5 months later, 6 months after Mark's departure: _

Roger pushed his way through the turnstile and walked down the stairs, trying not to bump into the throng of people jostling around him. A slight gust of wind from the incoming subway blew his hair into his face, and he pushed it back with an irritated scowl. Sure, it fit his whole 'rocker' image, but sometimes it was a real God damn hassle.

Once he reached level ground again, he waited for the next train to come. Someone grumbled something about crazy kids taking unnecessary risks behind him. Glancing back, he realized he was standing on the thick yellow 'Caution' line. He smirked. Fuck the yellow line.

When the train pulled in, he stepped back to make way for the flood of people that got off, then got in and took a seat. The doors snapped shut with a chorus of creaks, and the subway began rumbling down the tunnel. He sat back and got comfortable. They had to make a few stops before it was time for him to get off.

He hated times like this the most. Times when he had nothing to do but sit with his thoughts. He'd been avoiding them like the plague for the last six months. Ever since Mark had left.

If he could keep himself busy, it didn't bother him as much. It was just a slightly uncomfortable niggling in the back of his mind. When he had time to think about it, time to question it, the pain came back. He wondered if it would ever get better.

Roger was no stranger to loss. He'd been losing things his whole life, ever since he was old enough to notice. You'd think he'd be used to it by now. Ironically, however, he knew that part of the reason he was hurting so badly over this was because he'd lost so much before. Every time he lost something, it just made him cling all the harder to the things that were still left. And now his best friend was gone. And he couldn't help thinking sometimes that it was partly his fault.

_Why does distance make us wise? _

It was ironic really that he had taken Mark for granted so much in the past. He thought he'd learned that lesson the hard way with Mimi. And now he was beginning to see in retrospect how important Mark was to him, and how much of an idiot he'd been for not knowing that sooner.

He felt a pang of guilt every time he realized he hadn't felt this much hurt for so long over even Mimi's death. That wasn't to say he hadn't been hurt by it; he'd shut himself in his room for a week after the funeral. But when he'd come out, he'd been resolved to start over, to honor the promise he'd made to her. He hadn't forgotten about her, but the moments when he'd miss her painfully had become fewer and fewer over the past two and a half years. Now when he thought about her, it was to remember the good times, the many happy moments he'd had with her, not to mourn the fact that she was gone.

But when Mimi had died, he'd had closure. With Mark, he hadn't even been able to wish him luck, to beg him to stay, to yell at him for leaving, _anything_. That, coupled with the fact that Mark was still out there, possibly alone, possibly getting hurt or hurting himself even more, made Roger worry more than ever. The only experience he'd had that came close to this was when he'd come back from Santa Fe to find Mimi missing. But they'd found her within a couple months.

Jesus, it was still hard to believe it'd been half a year. And that time slipping away left Roger in a panic. It made him nauseatingly aware of the fact that, unlike his other friends, he didn't have more than a decade or so, if he was lucky, to wait for Mark to come back. He couldn't just let his life slip away in the interim.

So he kept going. He had his good days and bad days. The good days when he'd work with the band for the majority of the day, write a new song, go to see Joanne and Maureen, maybe to the bar with Blake and Jeff afterwards, and be so tired when he got home that he'd immediately fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. The bad days when he'd wake up with no set plans, and be stuck with his thoughts.

Luckily, he had his friends to keep an eye on him. He knew that sometimes he was dangerously close to falling into a depression again. On the worst days he found himself even thinking about taking a walk down to the park to visit the man he hadn't interacted with in almost four years. But then he'd get a call from Maureen, or Joanne would stop by on her way to work, or Jeff would pound on his door until he rolled out of bed and answered, sometimes even beating out the rhythm to some of their songs when he'd been at it for over ten minutes. One of the most disturbing moments he'd ever experienced had been when Blake picked the lock to his apartment and started blaring rap music in the living room when he'd been intent on curling up into a little ball and wallowing in his misery.

Most of the time, it was Blake who got him out of his funk. It seemed that even though the man went through more women than boxes of Kleenexes, he could still be one of the most dedicated people Roger had ever come across when it came to music and his friends. He refused to let Roger run away from life like he had in the past, much in the same way Mark had, but in Blake's signature aggressive manner. He would force Roger out, drag him down to the Life Café for lunch, make Roger go over some of the newer songs with him, acting like he was confused about a certain part when he was in reality just giving Roger something to focus on. Something other than Mark and the fact that he was gone.

And there was another thing Blake was constantly reminding him of. That Mark would be back, that things weren't as hopeless as they seemed. It was Blake who had suggested they go to the loft and clean a little every other week, to keep things ready for when Mark returned. It was a subtle reminder that Roger's missing best friend wasn't completely gone from his life. That, at the very least, was a comfort.

Roger was brought out of his thoughts by the ringing of his cell phone. He dug it out of his pocket and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, man! It's Blake." Roger sighed exaggeratedly. Speak of the devil. No doubt his band mate was checking up on him again.

"Jesus, Blake. Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Unfortunately, she's unavailable at the time."

"Ha ha. How is the Woman of the Week?" Roger asked sarcastically.

"Diana is fine. I really like her Rog. I think I might keep her around."

"Holy shit. Is the world coming to an end? Blake Carlson talking about a serious relationship?"

"I never said _serious_, man," Blake hastened to explain. "I just might keep her around a while longer. At least until the move."

"Blake, remind me to kick your ass next time I see you for casually talking about a woman like she's a piece of furniture."

"Well, _sorry_," Blake moaned jokingly. "It's hard to fight my animal instincts. Diana isn't looking for anything serious, anyway. I try to make sure there's no emotional tie-ups. Too fuckin' messy for me." Roger grunted.

"Anyway," Blake continued after a moment, "I just wanted to ask if you 'd told them yet."

"Actually, I'm on my way to see them right now. I thought I'd break the news in person. Hopefully they won't be too upset."  
"Are you kidding, man? They'll be just as psyched for us as we are! They know what this means."

"I dunno. It's just that, I feel kinda guilty for leaving now, especially since…" He left the sentence unfinished.

"I know, man. Don't worry though. It's not like we're disappearing without a trace. I plan to call and hit on Joanne at least once or twice a month."

"Sometimes you make me wonder if you're emotionally retarded or just plain stupid."

"Neither. It's the thrill of the chase, baby."

"Still doesn't make sense to chase after a lesbian with a penis."

"A _legendary _penis," Blake corrected.

"Shut the fuck up. We're at my stop anyway, so goodbye."

"Aww! Did I make you feel inadequate?"

The beeping sound of a dial tone was the only answer Blake got.

_Two hours later, after dinner at Joanne and Maureen's apartment: _

"So what's this big news you had for us that had to wait until after dinner?" Maureen asked after Joanne had taken the plates into the kitchen. She was alternately taking a few sips of her coffee and then reapplying her lipstick. Roger would never be able to understand her.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Roger asked with a grin.

"Roger, we'll never know what 'this' is until you tell us," Joanne stated exasperatedly.

"Okay. Well, you know how well our last tour did…" Roger led up to it. He wasn't going to let them have the satisfaction of getting it out of him easily.

"Well, duh," Maureen huffed. "I never would have thought you'd sell that many CDs! Are you going on another tour?"

"Not exactly," Roger hedged.

"What the hell does that mean?" Joanne asked, glaring at him.

"Meaning we're doing really well underground over here on the east coast. It wouldn't make any sense to just do another tour at this point."

"Just get on with it already!" Maureen exclaimed after a moment. "I hate twenty questions!"

"Okay, okay. Well, since we've been doing so well over here recently, our manager has decided it's time to move on to bigger things."

"What bigger things?" Maureen questioned when he paused once again.

"Up 'til now, we've been producing our music with an independent small-time label called MNYC. But a couple days ago, we were signed by Capitol Records."

Roger finished his announcement, and the silence that greeted it could have been cut with the proverbial knife. Until Maureen's brain caught up with her mouth.

"OH MY GOD!" she shrieked, jumping from her seat, and probably disturbing the rest of the residents within a five-block radius. "THAT'S…OH MY GOD!"

Roger was soon swept into a suffocating hug. When Maureen was done, Joanne took her turn, and surprisingly, her hug was no less crushing.

"That's incredible, Roger!" she gushed. Maureen started jumping up and down with barely contained excitement.

"I just-that just-I mean-Who would have-I can't believe it!" Maureen was babbling. Roger laughed and held up a hand.

"Slow down, you guys!" he tried to calm them. "I'm not finished quite yet!"

"You mean there's _more?_" Maureen's eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets.

"Well, yeah, sort of." Roger grimaced slightly. Here came the hard part. "Capitol is an L.A based label. Part of the agreement we made stated that in order to get more exposure and to be closer to headquarters, we have to move the band out to Los Angeles." Joanne's smile promptly dropped off her face.

"Ah," she said quietly. "I see. When do you leave?"

"In a few months," Roger said. He was shocked to see even Maureen's excited look had sobered a bit. After a moment, though, her lips turned up in a small smile.

"Hey," she broke the quiet that had descended on the room. "What are we getting all mopey over? I'm really happy for you, Roger." She moved over to sit next to him on the couch, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You promise to drop us a line every now and again?" she asked.

"Of course. I'll make sure to brag about everything in painful detail." Joanne took his hand from where she was sitting on his other side.

"Good luck, then," she said, squeezing his hand slightly. "I know you'll make us proud."

And somehow, Roger knew that she wasn't just talking about herself and Maureen. She was talking about Mark, too.

* * *

Well, there ya be! Chapter 5 should be out pretty soon, hopefully in a couple days, as I've been feeling very much inspired for some unknown reason. I was actually reading Harry Potter, the sixth book for the first time (I know, I'm late on reading it, sue me) and I can't fathom WHY, but it made me really want to write my own story more... and get to the M/R fluffiness and smut as soon as is humanly possible. Maybe I have some sort of Harry Potter/RENTfic kink I didn't know about... 

Hit that little REVIEW button... C'mon, you know you want to... :)


	5. Chapter 5

AN: AGGGH! Sorry this took so long to get out. I thought I'd posted it already, but it turns out I'd only posted it on my LJ. So my bad. Here's the next chapter. The sixth should be out soon! Hopefully. But, you know, sometimes crap happens... ;;;

* * *

_3 months earlier, 3 months after Mark's departure:_

Mark zoomed his camera in, focusing on a small flock of pigeons congregating around a handful of seed an old man had just thrown. The wrinkled face was lit with a wistful happiness. Despite that, Mark could recognize the loneliness etched deep within the weathered lines. Funny that he could recognize so easily something he'd strived to avoid his whole life.

A group of kids ran up and frightened the birds away, jumping and shouting out incomprehensible nonsense words. A fretting mother ran up and scolded them, then turned to apologize to the old man. He smiled; Mark wondered how long it had been since the old man had talked to anyone. He was probably happy for any excuse to start up a conversation. The kids looked abashed after their scolding and apologized too. The youngest, a little girl with freckles, pig tails and deep brown eyes, crawled up next to him on the bench and fished around in her pocket. She pulled out a sticky sucker that was half eaten and offered it to him shyly.

The mother looked scandalized, but the old man just smiled again and told the little girl he'd already eaten a big lunch. Mark watched it all from the sidelines. It struck him that maybe if he hadn't been so keen on observing, he would have thought to approach the lonely looking old man himself. That's what he was supposed to be doing here, wasn't it? Reaching out to other people was a lot harder than it seemed when he was so used to hiding behind a camera lens.

Mark sighed and began to pack his camera away. He walked the couple of blocks to his apartment and climbed the two flights of stairs. It was a lot different here than living in a loft apartment; certainly a lot less trouble to walk up to the second floor instead of the top one. He couldn't help thinking, though, that he would rather climb all the stairs in the world than come home to an empty apartment. He hated feeling alone. In New York, even when Roger was gone from the loft, his presence seemed to linger there. Here it seemed just… abandoned.

It wasn't that he was unhappy here, though. He'd been incredibly lucky so far. After only a couple days of staying in a cheap motel, he'd found a reasonable apartment. Moving in hadn't been bad at all, as he hadn't brought much stuff to begin with. He'd spent the next few weeks slowly filling his new place with second-hand furniture.

The door creaked open loudly as he walked in and set his camera by the door. He took his jacket off and threw it on the couch. He hadn't really needed it today; it was warm enough out. For some reason, though, he just felt more at home with it on. Probably because in New York it was a lot colder.

_Humans really are creatures of habit_, he mused.

He walked to the kitchen and poured himself some water. The sound of the tap turning on and liquid filling the glass echoed into the apartment. It was so quiet here, but at least it felt closer to being his now than it had at first. For a while, all he'd had had been a lumpy old mattress and blankets. Now he'd added a bed frame, a couch, an old recliner, a coffee table, a dining table and chairs along with a shitty T.V and covered the empty walls with prints of some of his photographs. Even having all his film equipment lying around made it feel cozier somehow.

He had to admit it was a lot nicer than the loft; it was clean and maintained well, not to mention it was a newer building with both air conditioning and central heating. The bathroom was new also and, he cringed to think it, at least he didn't have flashbacks anymore; visions of bloodied tile and unseeing eyes staring at him. He could afford the rent now, and the neighbors were respectable and quiet; not partiers, strippers and drug addicts. Sometimes he felt like he was only kidding himself, though. It still didn't feel like home.

The first month had been the worst; there were days where he honestly would have liked to just sink into the floorboards and disappear. The stress of moving in, trying to find a job, everything seemed to close in on him. It hadn't surprised him that he missed Roger like crazy, but the intensity of the feeling had. He'd never really realized how much he needed Roger before. Even when Roger was on tour, even when he'd avoided calling him for fear of giving something away, none of that had even come close to how he'd felt that first month. Because before he'd always had the option of picking up the phone and calling his best friend. To have all ties completely cut off had been a shock.

He took a few sips from his glass, poured out the rest of the water and walked into the bedroom, flopping onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. The feelings of loneliness weren't that bad now that he had work to keep him busy, but on his off days he had a lot of time to dwell on it. He wondered for the millionth time how Roger was doing. It sometimes scared him how his best friend was never far from his mind. Even now he had to fight himself to stop from picking up the phone and calling, screw everything else.

He knew that part of the reason he'd left was because he realized it was unhealthy for him to rely on Roger as much as he did. He needed to define who _Mark_ was, not Mark andRoger. He wondered if it would always hurt this badly, though. If it did, he knew he probably couldn't stand it. But he would give it some more time.

Give it time. That had become his mantra over the past few months. The crushing pain of lonliness he felt while he lay awake at night, the pang of regret whenever he was going through clips and found Roger smiling back at him from the screen, the worry over how his best friend had taken him leaving, the niggling doubt he had that he wasn't doing anyone any good, that he was just running away like he'd suspected from the beginning. He had to give it all time. It would get better.

_There is no future, there is no past, _he reminded himself.

Live for the moment. He didn't have it so bad. He had a great new job, lots of new friends and a comfortable place to live. It may still hurt like hell now, but he only had to wait. Then he could be happy with what he had here.

As he slowly drifted off to sleep, a pair of piercing ocean green eyes stared at him from the darkness.

Would here ever be enough?

_Three hours later:_

Mark was woken from his sleep by a knock on his door. With a groan, he sat up and rubbed at his eyes. It had been mid-afternoon when he'd fallen asleep. Checking his watch he saw that a couple of hours had passed. Straightening his glasses, he realized he hadn't even bothered to take them off earlier. He stretched and with a wince, felt a few bones pop in his back.

Another knock came, and with a start he was reminded that it was what had woken him up in the first place. He rushed to the door and unlocked the dead bolt, swinging it open. A smile lit his face when he saw that a young man with blonde striped black hair was standing with his fist raised to knock again.

"Jesus, Mark. Took you long enough," Chris said, cocking an eyebrow. "I didn't catch you in a… bad situation, did I?" He looked Mark up and down exaggeratedly, making it quite clear what he was implying Mark had been doing. Mark blushed slightly and laughed.

"Nice to see you too, pervert," he said. "What's up?"

"Well, I was in the neighborhood…"

"Christian," Mark cut him off before he could give him a bull-shit excuse. Chris sighed.

"Fine. I was bored out of my mind. I decided to see if you wanted to come be bored with me. I'll even pay for dinner." This was followed by a disarmingly gorgeous smile. Mark couldn't help but feel a little nervous.

"Uh… sure. Let me get my keys." Mark stepped back into his apartment and slipped on his shoes, then grabbed his keys, coat and camera. He walked back to Chris who immediately snatched the camera out of his hands.

"Mark, please," he moaned. "You bring this with you every-fucking-where. Leave it tonight, would you?" Mark hesitated for a moment, and Chris said, "Besides, it gives me the impression that you aren't paying attention to me when you lug that thing around. It dampens my suffering self esteem." Mark laughed as he put the camera away.

"Christian, you have one of the biggest egos I've ever come across. I doubt anything I could do would change that."

"Point," Chris said with a smirk. He led the way down to the street. Chris gestured for Mark to follow him through the evening crowds, and started walking. "Why do you keep that thing, anyway? It's ancient. I'm sure you could afford a better one."

"I've always had it," Mark said. "I dunno, it just… fits me. I've had it for so long, it's like an extended part of my body. I feel the most comfortable filming with my old camera. I don't think I'll ever have the heart to get rid of it."

"I never pegged you as the pack-rat type."

"I'm not. I left practically everything else behind in the move…" Mark trailed off, realizing that he'd just let slip a rather revealing piece of information. Christian didn't seem concerned, though. He continued walking without breaking stride or giving any indication he'd found what Mark had just said odd at all. They lapsed into a companionable silence for a few blocks.

"Do you like sushi?" Chris asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"Uh… sure, I guess. I've never had it, so I can't really say."

"Excellent. I'm sure this will be an experience for you then."

"Good or bad?" Mark asked with a grin.

"That, my bespectacled comrade, is entirely up to the delicacy of your palate," Chris said with a smirk, leading Mark into a brightly lit restaurant called Mori Sushi. Of course, Mark had to ask what the name was. The only sign was of a very large, simplistic green fish.

Fifteen minutes later, they were ushered to a cozy corner table towards the back of the restaurant. It really was a beautiful place. Interesting original paintings adorned the walls, and the lighting was dimmed, giving the place a natural feel.

"I've always liked this place," Chris stated when they were seated. "It's been a while since I've been here, though."

"I don't know how you could stay away, what with the appeal of raw fish," Mark stated dryly.

"You'd be surprised," Chris said. "I'll turn you into a sushi-lover yet."

The waitress came to take their orders, then. Mark decided to sit back and let Chris do the ordering for them. He was a little out of his league here. In a few minutes, their waitress was back bearing a couple of cups of water along with what looked like rounded shot glasses made out of pottery and a small jug made of the same with a gracefully painted black Japanese symbol on the side.

"Never had _sake_ before?" Chris asked when he saw Mark's interested look.

"Actually, no. What is it?"

"Japanese rice wine. They have some of the best in the city here."

He carefully poured into the two tiny glasses, handing one to Mark. Chris laughed when Mark stared intently at the drink for a moment, and clinked his to it in toast, startling the filmmaker out of his examination.

"Jesus, Mark. It won't bite," he said, taking a small sip. Mark followed his example and smiled.

"It's really good," he said before taking another sip.

"I don't know why you seem so surprised. You should know by now I have impeccable taste."

"I'm not even gonna touch that one," Mark muttered, and Chris stuck his tongue out before sipping at his drink again.

It was really comfortable, joking around with Chris, Mark thought. Out of all the people he'd met in the past few months, Christian had really seemed to stick out. Of course, that might be attributed to the fact that almost eighty percent of the time he spent at work was spent in Christian's presence.

Vivre TV had put him on the fast track to becoming the new DP, but first he had to get in all the grunt work. And that meant following Chris around and filming a large portion of the show, in and out of the studio. For the first month, he'd been the man behind the camera. After that, he'd been involved in most of the actual cutting and formatting of the show and more recently, in helping to set up and make bigger decisions involving the way the show was filmed.

They worked with his talents, giving him more and more artistic license to the point that he almost didn't know what to do with all the freedom. If their ratings were anything to go by, Mark's touch was definitely being noticed by the viewers. Beth was so happy with his work that she had even approached him about maybe airing a segment or two of some of his personal documentaries to see how it would be received.

It was a dream come true for Mark. He was doing work he loved, on subjects he was interested in, reaching out to an audience and making money doing it. Everyone at the show was incredibly talented and incredibly helpful. For all that it was a small operation, everyone carried their own weight and then some. Beth was a PR wiz and a great leader. He'd learned more from working with Tom, the current DP who would be leaving in another month or so, than he'd ever learned from any of his classes at Brown. And Chris… Chris was just something else.

He had the same raw vitality and sex appeal that Roger had when it came to being filmed. The energy just flowed out of the screen whenever he was on it. He was one of the most photogenic people Mark had ever had the pleasure of working with. He was an intelligent interviewer and a damn good reporter, often getting to the heart of the story better than any anchor Mark had seen on national television. Chris had drive, but preferred the freedom to do stories on issues he believed in or found important to the ambition of a prime-time slot. It was one of the things Mark admired most about him.

Sure, he was arrogant, slow to trust and honest to the point of sadism, but somehow, he had an underlying charisma that forced everyone he knew, even those on the receiving end of his biting comments, to genuinely like him. And even though he didn't seem to make large amounts of real friends, ("Why waste time on idiots?" he'd often ask with a smirk) to those he did have he was incredibly caring and every bit as loyal as Mark tended to be. And out of all the multitudes of people Mark had met so far, Chris was the first one he really felt a deep connection with.

"Hello?" Chris crooned, waving his hand in front of Mark's face. Mark almost jumped as he was brought out of his thoughts. "I think you've been somewhere else for the last few minutes."

"Oh, sorry. Just thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

"Ooo, I've never heard that one before. Really, Christian, I thought you prided yourself on being original."

"Diversionary tactics will get you nowhere. You call that a comeback?"

"I guess we are both being a little cliché," Mark admitted with a grin.

"Come now. You hardly give yourself enough credit. You, my dear friend, are sipping on _sake_ for the first time and about to enjoy a dinner of culturally rich food. I can't believe you never had sushi in New York. I couldn't live without the occasional sushi bar."

"Actually, in New York I went to this restaurant called The Life Café a lot. Huge health-nut place. Tofu in everything." Chris grimaced.

"Tofu? Blegh. Give me red, raw meat any day."

"Well, it was the atmosphere of the place that counted over the food. Though I will never understand why Collins always ordered pasta with meatless balls." Chris grimaced again at that.

"Meatless meatballs," Chris muttered with an exasperated sigh. "That makes absolutely no sense."

"Yeah. It was one of the few items on the menu I never got up the courage to trying."

"So, this Collins," Chris continued after a moment. "I think I remember him from that film of yours I saw. The one who fell in love with… what was her name… Angel?"

Mark's eyes widened fractionally when he realized he had started talking so easily with Chris about his past. The feeling of old hurt was still there like it always was when he thought about his life in New York, but there was no real discomfort in actually talking about it. Maybe it was something about Chris that let him feel secure, or maybe it was just time he started talking about it. It might help him figure out answers to some of the questions he had taken to asking himself lately.

Besides, Mark had always been open about his opinions and views, confident when in the company of his friends. He did tend to observe more often than act, but he certainly wasn't the type to shy away from attention when it was given to him. Why should this be any different?

"Yeah," Mark said with a sad smile. "Collins was head over heels from the minute they met. She really was his knight in shining… well, drag, I guess." Chris laughed.

"I've only worked up the courage to go drag a few times in my life," Chris said. "I was always afraid that one day I'd realize I make a much prettier girl than a boy. It would completely destroy my image of myself as a heart-breaking man's man. Angel seems like she had real balls, as ironic as that is."

"Definitely. She was a life-loving paradox in a pair of stilettos. If there's one thing I regret about Angel, it's that I only got to know her for that short year. It was actually her who inspired _Today 4 U_ in the first place."

Mark was interrupted as the waitress walked up with the food. The sushi was arranged artistically on small,

bright red segmented plates. Chris watched with an amused smirk when Mark tried to figure out the chopsticks by himself. He gave in after a moment and helped him out, letting out small chuckles the whole time at Mark's annoyed little grunts. In a few minutes, Mark had gotten the hang of it marginally, but by the end of the meal opted to use a fork.

By the time dessert came, Mark had only had one other problem besides the chopsticks; apparently, the little blob of greenish paste-looking stuff was insanely spicy. Chris showed him how to mix it with soy sauce properly after nearly laughing himself sick when Mark tried it the first time. He was still letting out little giggles when the chocolate ice-cream was placed in front of them.

"So," he managed after taking a minute or two to compose himself, "tell me more about the people in your film. You still keep in touch with them all?" The seemingly safe, innocent question made Mark a little wary with how to answer it.

"Well, Joanne and Maureen…" he started.

"Wait. Joanne was the lawyer, right? And that means Maureen is your crazy ex-girlfriend who left you for her?" He gave a little laugh and shook his head. "I will never understand women, for all that most of them are batting for the same team I am."

"Uh… yeah," Mark stammered after a while, unsure how to take the veiled flirtation. "Well, they're still together. When I left they were, at least. But they break up and get back together so often that it's anyone's guess."

"The make-up sex must be incredible to keep them coming back." Mark cringed.

"That is one image I do not need floating around in my head."

"Oh, come on," Chris laughed. "You've had to have at least thought about it once."

"Worst moment of my life," Mark stated grimly, but ruined it by smiling when Chris laughed again.

"So, how is everyone else post-documentary? What about that adorable little stripper?"

"Mimi?" Mark asked, a little reluctant to go on. "Well, she and Roger ended up getting married a while later, but…" he trailed off, looking pointedly at his melting dessert.

"Oh," Chris said quietly after a few moments of silence, one of his hands coming across the table to rest on Mark's. "I'm sorry, Mark. I didn't mean to dredge up any sad memories. I guess I was just trying to learn a little more about you, corny as that sounds."

His words were spoken encouragingly, leaving it up to Mark whether to drop the subject or not. Looking up, Mark could see the knowledge on his friend's face that spoke of losing people close to him as well. And he knew Chris understood because there were no empty statements of, 'I know how you feel.' Just a quiet acceptance and an answering sadness.

"No, it's okay," Mark said with a slight smile. "About three weeks after they got married, we lost Mimi. It was another nine months or so before we lost Collins. It's life, I guess. But they were good friends. I suppose I'll always miss them." He kept his explanation short and to the point. He found it really wasn't as hard to say it as he'd thought it would be. Hell, he had barely spoken with anyone about his friends deaths afterwards. Certainly not about how he'd felt about losing them.

"I'm sorry," Chris said, his hand squeezing Mark's, still underneath his on the table, and Mark knew he meant it. "Thanks for telling me."

"No problem," Mark said, turning his hand over and squeezing back. And from the smile Chris gave him at that, he knew he'd earned himself one more lifelong friend.

* * *

_7 months later; 10 months after Mark's departure: _

Roger let out a big sigh as he dropped his luggage on the ground and flopped onto the bed the minute he got in the door. He was exhausted; not just physically, but mentally. The trip had been longer and more nerve-racking than he had thought it would be. As the neon lights of LA blinked at him from outside the window of his hotel room, the fact that he was really away from New York hit home.

That city had always been his home, more so than anywhere else, and even when he picked up and left it with the intention of staying away, he always felt the strong urge to go back. He was drawn to old Alphabet City for reasons even he didn't fully understand. One reason was painfully clear, though, and gave him the almost panicked _need_ to go back. Mark was still gone.

Roger smirked into the blanket. It would be just like Mark to have horrible timing and decide to come back home the minute Roger had left. And as ironic and sickeningly amusing as that would be, Roger was terrified it would happen, Mark would find him gone and leave again. Roger hadn't had a lot of luck in his life, and he'd made Maureen and Joanne promise to take care of the loft and check it every now and again, just in case Mark did come back.

There was an emptiness in the back of his mind that just wouldn't go away, no matter how busy he kept himself. The last time Roger had been this frightened had been when he'd been about to lose Mimi. He couldn't escape it; it seemed like he'd been terrified for months, and it was hard to believe that it had almost been a year since Mark left.

He wanted to give up on Mark. He really did. But wanting to do something and actually _doing_ it were two entirely different things. And for all that Roger wished he could forget him and move on, he found that it wasn't possible. He missed Mark like hell even now, after all these long months, and he knew that he'd give anything to hear the whirr of Mark's camera as it recorded, to tug playfully at the end of his scarf because Roger knew it pissed him off, to give Mark a bemused glare and roll his eyes when he reminded Roger to take his pills for the fifth time that day, to see those bright blue eyes light up when he smiled, to talk to him again, to touch him again. And it was the most frustrating thing in the world to know that he couldn't.

Recently, he'd been having nightmares; Mark was always there, he would be able to see him as he walked closer, and the wonderful feeling of relief that would come then almost made him want to cry until his voice was hoarse. But then Roger would notice that Mark had a solemn, detached look on his face, and when Roger tried to call out to him, he would find he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe; that he was boxed in on all sides by the cold walls of a coffin.

And the dark would be the only witness when he woke up to the sound of his own screams, tears burning paths down his cheeks, shaking so violently that he couldn't even clasp his own hands over his mouth to stifle the sobs. He would pray then, to any god that would listen, pray for Mark to come back to him before his nightmares came true.

But his life was moving at a rapid pace whether Roger liked it or not. He was happy the band was doing so well, but that happiness was tempered by the fact that he couldn't share it with his best friend. He still felt pangs of anger when he realized that this was possibly the most important stage in his life, and Mark wasn't there to share it with him.

Roger let out a long sigh and turned over on the bed. He was stuck in this hotel for a while, unfortunately. Their manager had found them apartments within walking distance of the studio, but Roger couldn't move in until his furniture and the rest of his shit got here. Since it was traveling across the country, it wouldn't be here for another week at least.

With a grunt, Roger got up to start putting some of his stuff away, to search for his toothbrush and sweatpants so he could take a shower and go to bed. He unzipped his largest suitcase, then turned the TV on so that he could have some background noise while he unpacked, so that the place didn't seem so empty. His stomach growled loudly and he made a mental note to order room service in a few minutes.

He glanced at the television as he pulled out some shirts and opened the dresser drawers. A stylized logo read "Vivre" in the lower right corner of the screen and a striking young man with black and gold striped hair was currently interviewing someone about an upcoming election. Roger groaned and changed the channel.

He hated politics.

* * *

AN: Hehe... sorry about the slight Cliffhanger. I shall get out the next chapter as soon as humanly possible. And, c'mon... I know at least some of you saw this coming. XD Press the review button. Please? I'd totally be your friend if you did... 


	6. Chapter 6

MUA! Here we are with Chapter 6! The long awaited reunion! TEEHEE! But don't take MY word for it. READ! XD_  
_

_

* * *

2 weeks after Roger's arrival in L.A.: _

A muffled moan escaped the blanket-covered lump on the bed. As the phone continued to ring, Mark lifted his head up slightly, glaring in the direction the annoying sound was coming from, then with a huff, smashed the pillow over his head. Let the damn thing ring.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it probably wasn't healthy to be sleeping as much as he had over the last couple of weeks. It seemed like whenever he wasn't at work, he was sleeping. And it was getting worse. Some days he just couldn't find the desire to get out of bed in the morning.

He realized how atypical this was of him. Mark was usually the type of person who hated to sleep. Sleeping was a waste of time. There was too much to miss; life was too short. After losing three close friends, he knew that fact all too clearly. There was always another film to start working on, something new to observe, someone who could use his help or opinion.

But that was before. Now, every waking moment, every hour spent away from New York was killing him. He could barely bring himself to eat, always felt tired and it was exhausting him to keep up appearances, make everyone believe he was okay. Because if there was something Mark couldn't have, it was bringing someone else grief. He was swimming in it, and he knew how much it sucked.

All the things he'd told himself, everything he believed he was accomplishing, all of it was falling apart; crumbling, cracking at his feet. Give it time, he'd thought. It'll get better. But it wasn't. It was getting worse. He was missing something, and sometimes the confusion, the panicked feeling that a piece of him had been ripped out, turned into a very real physical pain. He'd heard before that the mind had a huge amount of power over the body, and now he was learning that first-hand.

The phone rang again. Mark squinted bleary eyes that tried to adjust to the darkness of the room, and with a sigh, rolled out of bed.

_I have to stop this, _he thought resolutely. _I can't keep pining away like some damn tragic heroine from one of Maureen's plays. _

He stumbled out into the living room, stubbing his toe on the couch and cursing under his breath. He hop-walked over to the phone, scooping it up off the counter and turning it on.

"Hello?" he asked, trying to make his voice normal, but sighing inwardly when it came out as a tired rumble.

"Hey Marky-baby!" Christian's bright voice rang into his eardrum and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What have I told you about calling me that, Christian?" he asked wearily.

"Aww, you're no fun. I thought it was a cute pet name. What's up?"

"I _was_ getting some well-earned sleep," Mark mumbled.

Actually, today was one of the few times his lethargy had been merited over the last month. He'd spent the last fourteen hours in the cutting room, putting the finishing touches on next month's batch of shows. After getting back to his apartment around 4 a.m., he'd promptly passed out. That was a short four hours ago.

"Oh, yeah," Chris said slightly apologetically after a moment. "Beth told me you stayed late last night. Sorry."

"It's okay," Mark said, "I guess it kinda goes with the territory."

"Yeah, I guess you _have_ been swamped ever since Tom left, haven't you, Mr. DP? Oh, that reminds me, Beth wanted you to look over some apps with her. She wanted to hire a couple more camera-slaves so that you don't have to do so much of the grunt work."

"That would be appreciated." Mark sighed. "So how are things otherwise?"

"Other than being lonely, bored and horny?"

"You're preaching to the choir," Mark smiled ruefully.

Jesus, how long had it been since he'd last had sex? After Maureen, he'd just kind of lost interest for a while. Being left for another woman did some bad things to his ego, and then with Angel going… it just hadn't seemed very important. It seemed like he was always busy with something else; too busy for any kind of relationship. And sadly, Mark had never really been able to do casual sex. Something about it just threw him off. Sometimes he really wished it didn't bother him so much, as he'd become rather more closely acquainted with his hand than he would have preferred over the last few years.

"Preaching to the choir, eh?" Chris asked, and Mark could just _hear_ the leer in it. "Well, seems like both our problems could be easily fixed. I'll be over in a couple minutes." Mark rolled his eyes.

"Shove it, Christian."

"That's the idea," Chris laughed. Mark groaned, but couldn't help a slight smile creeping onto his face.

A few months after he'd started working for Vivre, Christian had made his attraction quite clear. And while Mark did care about Chris, he just wasn't ready for that sort of thing. Sure, Chris was gorgeous, and it wasn't like Mark had never thought about being with another guy before. Hell, he'd lived for years with Collins, and when Collins wasn't smoking weed or grading papers, he was talking about his sexual conquests… well, before Angel, of course. Quite honestly, Mark could see the appeal.

But Mark had to figure himself out before he could be fair to anyone else. He cared too much about Chris to fuck up their friendship over anything. Sometimes he thought that Chris was the only thing keeping him sane. And Chris really had accepted Mark's decision. That didn't mean he was above teasing the filmmaker every now and again, however.

Oddly enough, after the whole episode, their friendship had become closer than ever. Mark shook his head slightly. Chris was the type of guy who just defied all logic.

"Seriously though," Chris continued after he'd finished laughing, "I do have a reason for calling."

"I should hope so," Mark dead-panned, "because if you'd woken me up just to have a chat, I would have to kill you."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," Chris laughed. "You can go back to sleep in a minute. I just need you to meet me at the House of Blues at 7:30 tonight. You're the only guy on call who'd be able to handle this. I mean, I'd use Dan or John, but if I did, I'd want you to direct them, so just having you come is easier."

"This is kind of last minute…" Mark trailed. "What's so important?"

"I got a great tip, and after looking into it a little more, I think this'll be a great story. Besides, it's been awhile since we've done something in A and E. Trust me, after hearing them, I know this band is gonna be hot."

"Okay, so we're filming a concert?"

"And doing an interview. I just cleared it with the manager. They just got picked up by Capitol, so they're right on the verge. Up and coming story, you know? I'm sure you'd love them, actually. I got a hold of a demo CD, and their songs are real down to earth, you know?"

"Like what?"

"Well, they aren't your average rock band. No boring, recycled love songs. They've got some really deep shit; struggling in America, problems with drug use, losing friends to the fast life. I even read in some of the info I got that the lead singer has HIV."

Mark froze. His fingers holding the phone went numb, and a voice he distantly recognized as his own asked,

"What's their name?" Chris laughed.

"Oh, I like that the best about them. Pure genius. They're called the Well Hungarians."

Mark wrapped an arm around his stomach to keep the bile from rising. He could feel his hand tighten around the phone until his knuckles were white. Desperate gasps threatened to overtake him. This wasn't possible. How the hell had this happened? Roger was here?

"Mark? Mark, you there?" Chris asked after a few minutes of silence. Mark started.

"Yeah," he managed to croak out. "Chris, I'll call you later, okay? I think I really overdid it last night."

"Sure," Chris answered hesitantly, the worry apparent in his voice. "You need anything?"

"No, just some sleep," Mark forced the smile into his next words. "I'm fine."

"Okay. Talk to you later then."

"Bye."

As soon as he hung up the phone, Mark dropped to the floor, palms falling to the cold tile, seeking support. As he fought the feeling of panic threatening to overtake him, his mind tried to process the information. Beyond all the confusion, disbelief, fear and relief, two small words stood out.

_Well, shit. _

_

* * *

12 hours later, 8:47 p.m. 13 minutes before the show: _

Roger found himself staring into the mirror in the dressing room as he was wont to do before almost every concert they had. And though he was staring into his own face, what he was really seeing was somewhere else. This is where he went over everything before show time, how he'd gotten here, his reasons for singing tonight.

He rubbed at the band on his left ring-finger absentmindedly. At first, it had been every night that he got up and sang for Mimi, and Mimi alone. As time went on, he started to sing more for his friends, and finally, just recently, he'd really started singing for himself. He hoped that that wasn't because he was really alone now.

He'd been missing Mark like crazy the past couple days. Usually, he was able to keep the feelings of betrayal and loss at a manageable level when he was busy. For some reason though, he'd almost broken down in the middle of rehearsal yesterday. That was the first time that had happened in months. And Roger's version of "breaking down" meant that he was angry and non-communicative; barely able to get any work done. Blake and Jeff had been about ready to throttle him.

He attributed his mood swing to the fact that this was possibly the most important moment in his career. It was their first real performance after being signed by Capitol. And for all that he knew that it wasn't helping him any, he couldn't help but feel the need for Mark to be here.

And he knew he had no one to blame for that but himself. It hurt, not in the way that made him angry, but in the way he hated the most. He could only feel regret about it all. He hated feeling guilty. No matter how much he deserved it.

With a sigh and a glance at the clock, he stood up and walked out before Blake could come and get him. He decided that he would channel all that anger, worry, guilt and loss into his music.

_Tonight, I'll sing for Mark. _

_

* * *

8:56 p.m. 4 minutes before the show:_

Mark fidgeted in his seat nervously. With an inner groan, he noticed Christian was looking at him funny. He knew it was blatantly obvious how uncomfortable he was. He'd even fumbled some of the equipment while setting up. That was _not _something Mark ever did, even on his worst days. Knowing Chris, he'd ask him about it soon.

"Christian," Mark started, feeling more fidgety as his friend looked over at him expectantly, "I put in a call to Dan. He'll be coming about a half-hour before the concert ends. I'll let him film the interview with you."

Mark knew he probably shouldn't have come at all. For some reason, though, he felt like he just had to go. He wanted to see Roger, even if it was from the press box of a darkened theater.

"What?" Chris asked, "Why?" Mark knew it would be a dead give away when he said he wasn't staying the whole time, but he couldn't put it off forever. Now Chris definitely knew something was up.

"Well…" Mark stalled, trying to think up some sort of excuse. A last ditch effort. He'd _been_ trying to think up a plausible excuse for the past 12 hours. Mark sucked at lying.

"The truth, Mark," Chris stated sternly. Shit. There was no getting out of this one.

"It's just that…" Mark paused again, and Chris glared at him, prompting him to continue, "I kinda, well, I know someone in the band…"

"Really?" Christian asked. "Well, why should that be a problem? I'd say it's a pretty convenient connection, considering. Why didn't you mention it before now?"

"Umm… Let's just say, he's a friend from back home. And I didn't leave under the most…amiable of circumstances."

"Meaning, what? Do you hate this guy or something? Is he out for your blood?"

"Of course I don't hate him," Mark stated adamantly, "And he's not—Well, I don't know, maybe he _is _out to kill me. You'd never know with Roger."

"Fuck! As in, _Today 4 U_ Roger?" Chris asked. Mark nodded glumly. A slight smile graced the journalist's lips and he laughed. "Shit! I _knew _that guy in the publicity photos looked familiar! Just couldn't place it. Didn't even place the name. I must be getting slow in my old age." He trailed off, giving another slight chuckle. At the look on Mark's face, though, he instantly stopped and got serious.

"So, what exactly were the circumstances under which you left?" he asked gently after a minute. Mark sighed.

"That's the thing. There really _weren't_ any. I just packed up and left, no warning. Roger didn't even know where I was going. I didn't even really say goodbye." It was a point which Mark had felt incredibly guilty over for the past ten months. What would Roger say if he saw him now? He'd probably be too pissed to even acknowledge him. And even though he knew it was being selfish, Mark didn't think he could handle that rejection.

"I take it you had some deeper reasons than just for the hell of it?" Chris asked. Mark glared at him.

"I'm not _that _much of an asshole."

"Just checking," Chris smiled. "Was afraid you might give me a run for my money." Mark smiled slightly.

"I'd tell you," he whispered after a moment, "but I'm still trying to figure it out and deal with it myself. I can't explain to you something even I don't fully understand."

"It's okay," Chris assured him. "I guess I'll use Dan if I _have _to." Mark gave a sigh of relief. Christian looked at him searchingly though, and continued,

"But Mark, don't you think this would be a good opportunity for you to make things right?"

Mark was saved from answering when the lights dimmed. He went to his position behind the camera, then did a quick check on the sound equipment.

As he waited for his best friend to walk on stage, Christian's last question kept swimming through his head. What were the chances of Roger crossing paths with him like this anyway?

Maybe Fate was trying to give him a hint.

* * *

Roger walked onto the stage with a confident spring in his step. He smiled. No matter how shitty he felt, being in front of a crowd always brought out the best in him. And even though he was still breaking inside, he knew that the old adage was true. The show must go on. 

As soon as the house had gone dark, the crowd had started thrumming. The cheers were more addicting than any drug. He lived for this.

The lights came up, and with a nod from Blake, Roger swung up to the mic, his guitar picking up a bright glare from the spotlight. Jeff started the beat for the first song as Roger greeted the audience. His fingers fell into place and started thrumming out the tune effortlessly. He gave a charming grin to a couple of the screaming girls in the front row. Then he started to sing, and everything else melted away.

* * *

Mark didn't know what to feel. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it was definitely nothing like this. It was like going back in time, to that first concert he'd seen Roger play at, the first concert he'd filmed him at. Roger was so close through the lens of his camera. Ironically, in reality, he couldn't be farther away from him. 

Relief surged through him, and Mark fought back the sting of tears in his eyes. Roger was okay. Roger was safe. And, the most prominent thought in his mind, Roger was _here_.

He didn't see Christian's eyebrows shoot up at the quality of the performance. He didn't see the multitude of an audience swarming below. He didn't see Blake or Jeff playing on the stage. The only thing he was aware of was his old roommate. And for the first time in ten months, he felt like he'd come home.

Roger had easily woven that spell over him that he always did whenever he was playing. There was something about him, the dynamic energy, the charisma, the raw talent of the man that was mesmerizing. Mark realized that they were playing some new songs he hadn't heard yet, then instantly felt stupid for feeling surprised by it. Of course Roger would have written new songs. He'd been gone for ten months.

A few more songs went by in a blur of activity, Mark barely aware of the passing time. He was back in New York, like nothing had ever gone wrong, like none of their friends had ever died. Like none of the questions waiting in the back of his mind needed to be answered. He was shocked out of his reverie when Roger finished a song, waited for a few moments, and started to talk.

"Everyone having a good time?" he asked. Screams, applause, shrieks. Roger smiled and continued.

"We wanna change it up a bit for this next one. This is a song off our newest album. I wrote it for a friend of mine. Wherever he is, I hope he's found everything he wanted."

Mark's breath caught in his throat. Chris shot him a look. Shit. This was a song for him.

The music that started in was different from anything he'd ever heard Roger's band do before. It almost sounded like some sort of alternative rock/country ballad. Roger's voice started softly on the vocals, and Mark couldn't even think to breathe.

_I can't help it but I wait all night  
Can't help it, but I wait all night without you  
Sunday morning didn't turn out right  
I came into the morning light without you_

_You left on the 'A' train, not even time to say  
Goodbye to the one that got away_

_I can be far away  
You won't be left behind  
As long as you remain my friend  
The easier I see the light of day_

The music washed over him, the pain that he'd caused his friend almost overwhelming him. Slowly, he realized that Chris wasn't watching the stage anymore. He was watching Mark. A strange sort of sad smile was on his friend's face. Mark didn't know what to say. And Roger's voice soared above it all.

_You lift me up like a summer breeze  
Slam me down so gracefully, you make it look so easy  
And when I don't want to be seen  
Times when I can't even breathe  
You're always air to me_

_I won't ask for much now  
I know the game you play  
Goodbye to the one that got away_

_I can be far away  
You won't be left behind  
As long as you remain my friend  
The easier I see the light of day_

The song ended, and Mark was left at a loss. His mind was tumbled in confusion, but amidst the tumult, one thing remained clear.

"Chris?" he asked quietly, still filming. "You got your cell phone?" The slightly sad smile turned up at the ends a little more, and Chris grinned at him.

"Don't I always?"

"Call Dan and tell him he doesn't need to come after all."

"I hoped you'd come to your senses," came the quiet statement as Chris gripped his shoulder, pausing before walking past and outside to get better reception.

And even then, Mark's eyes stayed glued to the stage.

* * *

Roger grabbed a towel as soon as he got back stage, wiping off the sweat that was running into his eyes. He smiled. Despite everything, that had been one hell of a show. 

He cleaned up, changed and was just about to go out to meet up with Blake who'd left a bit earlier when a knock came at the door. He wondered who would be knocking, and whoever it was, he hoped it wouldn't take too long. They had an interview scheduled shortly after the concert. He didn't have much time to waste.

He opened the door to reveal a very attractive young man with gray-blue eyes and black hair striped with blonde highlights. He was slouched slightly, twirling his backstage pass around his right index finger. He stopped twirling and gave Roger a gorgeous smile when the door opened.

"Roger Davis, I presume?" he asked, reaching out a hand. Roger shook it.

"Yeah," Roger said, at a loss. Why did that face look so familiar?

"I'm Christian Wilson from Vivre TV. You and your band mates will be doing an interview with me tonight." The face clicked in Roger's mind.

"Nice to meet you," he stated. "I've seen your show a few times since moving in. I was really impressed, actually." Chris laughed.

"Well, besides yours truly, was there anything else you particularly liked?"

"You covered some really good topics. The camera work was incredible, too. Not that I know much about that kinda thing." The smile that came at that statement nearly blinded Roger. There was an amused twinkle in Christian's eye as he said,

"Yes, well, we do have the best DP around. Speaking of which, I was wondering if you could take a few minutes before the interview? There's someone here I'd like you to meet."

"Uh, sure," Roger said. This was getting weird. What the hell was this guy so excited about?

"Well then, follow me. I've gotten one of the green-rooms set up for the interview. He should be waiting there."

Roger followed him feeling more and more confused. Who would want to meet just him and not the whole band? With a growing feeling of unease, they stopped before a closed door leading to what Roger assumed was the room where they would do the interview. Chris turned to look at him.

"I guess I'll leave you to it then. Try not to kill him." And with that ominous statement, Roger was left staring bewilderingly at the door.

Okay, this wasn't weird. It was fucking bizarre.

Feeling a little anxious, Roger opened the door and stepped into the room. Looking over to the left, he saw the man sitting on the couch, and his knees almost gave out on him.

"Mark?" he whispered, almost believing this to be some sort dream, that if he spoke too loudly, his best friend would disappear on him again.

"Yeah." Nope, not a dream. He could never forget that voice. His eyes started burning. "Hi, Rog."

Every feeling that had been building up within Roger over the last ten months exploded. After a few long steps he wasn't even aware he'd taken, he found himself standing right in front of the filmmaker. Mark didn't see the punch coming until it had hit him square in the jaw.

* * *

Mark groaned and rubbed at his lip where Roger had split it, feeling a small trickle of blood run down his chin. His vision had blacked out for a short second when his head had slammed back into the wall. Well, it wasn't as bad as what he'd expected. Roger hadn't hit him all that hard… for Roger. 

Suddenly, he was lifted to his feet by the front of his shirt. With a wince, he readied himself for another punch. His eyes jolted open when Roger pulled him into a tight hug. Mark breathed in with a slight smile that hurt his split lip. It felt like Roger was trying to fuse them together.

Mark's arms shot up around his friend of their own volition, squeezing back just as hard. Relief even more palpable than what he'd felt when watching his friend on stage surged up, and he realized that he was crying, the tears smearing his glasses. How had he stayed away from Roger for so long?

"I missed you," he heard Roger whisper, his voice choked with tears. Good. At least he wasn't the only one crying.

"Me too," he managed after a while, hugging his friend closer when he felt Roger's arms tighten.

"Bastard," his friend mumbled into his shoulder where he'd buried his face. Mark rubbed soothingly at the guitarists back.

With a twinge of guilt, he couldn't help but agree.

* * *

AN: Sorry about the slight cliffhanger. I have a fifteen page paper to finish this weekend, so hopefully I'll be able to write some more on Tuesday, since I don't have class then! Please REVIEW, as it prompts me to write more, and I love hearing your opinions! And thanks for all the previous reviews! LOVE YOU GUYS! 

Also, the song Roger sings is off of Adam Pascal's album Model Prisoner, so all credits on that go to him. It's called (surprisingly!) "The One That Got Away". I chose it because it fit the fic, and :insert fangirl squeal: when you listen to it, it really sounds like it's ROGER! MUAhAHAHAHA--- Okay, I know I'm a loser... :-P


	7. Chapter 7

**HAPPY HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! **In honor of it, I bring you the fluffiest fluff it has ever been my fluffy misfortune to fluffily write:-D

Let me know if people like this type of thing or hate it. Like, and I shall write more into the story that's similar, hate, and I will never bother you with it again. YAYY!

_ And, on to the story...  
_

_

* * *

One hour later; Mark's apartment: _

Mark fumbled his keys, finally fitting the correct one into the lock and opening his door. He could feel Roger's gaze on his back. He couldn't begin to sort out the tumult of emotions rushing through him. He hadn't expected to see Roger again for a while, and the sudden jolt of him being reinstated in his life was hard to process.

A few minutes after their reunion in the green-room, Chris had come back (Mark had glared at his friend over Roger's shoulder at the amused smirk he'd given to find Mark still comfortably enveloped in the guitarist's embrace). He'd told them that he'd already rescheduled the interview with the other band members and suggested with a sly wink that Roger and Mark go find somewhere more _private _to talk. This had earned him another glare from Mark.

He couldn't deny that Christian was right though, even if his insinuations were off. Roger also seemed to need reassurance that Mark wasn't going anywhere. The filmmaker could practically _feel_ the nervous energy radiating off of his best friend. He'd wasted no time in leading Roger back to his place.

With a jingle, he tossed his keys to the coffee table, throwing his jacket on the closest chair and inviting Roger to do the same.

"Well, here we are," he stated, breaking the tense silence. He gave a mental grimace. _Real smooth, Mark_.

Roger gave a slight wince, setting his coat down and looking around. This was unbearable. Things had never been so…. _uncomfortable _between them before. He hated it. They needed to clear the air between them, and they needed to do it now.

He flopped down onto the couch and patted the seat next to him. With a smirk, Roger thought that Mark looked like he was being lead to his own execution.

"Nice place," he said, patting the seat next to him again. "More habitable than the loft anyway." Something inside him melted a little at the small lopsided grin Mark gave at that statement. He thought he'd never see that smile again.

"Yeah, well, I can finally afford it. Even though I hate the idea that I'm turning into a God damn capitalist." Mark couldn't believe they were having this conversation. He almost expected Roger to get up and walk out at any second. He didn't really deserve the type of forgiveness he seemed to be getting.

Roger sighed as he saw Mark's shoulders tense up again at some passing thought. He reached over and grabbed his biceps, giving a comforting squeeze.

"Chill out, Mark. I'm not gonna kill you." Mark relaxed a little, then let out a short laugh.

"I dunno, Rog," he started, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. "For a second there, you coulda fooled me."

Roger mentally slapped himself, looking at Mark's face to see the swollen lip that was starting to bruise. Well, he'd never been good at keeping his emotions in check. All the anger and feelings of betrayal had just built up all at once until he'd needed an outlet. Probably wasn't the best way to greet a friend he'd missed horribly for the past ten months.

"Shit, I forgot," he amended lamely. "Sorry about that." Almost without thinking, his hand raised up from Mark's arm to cup the side of his face, his thumb darting out to graze gently over the damage he'd dealt. He mentally kicked himself again. He hated it when he hurt Mark.

Mark's eyes widened momentarily, his breath rushing in at Roger's gentle actions. Involuntarily, his eyelids began to get heavy, his heart beating faster. He pulled away slowly, stuttering out,

"It's… it's okay. Don't worry about it." He stared at his lap.

Roger realized what he'd been doing and looked away, slowly taking his hands off of Mark. What the hell was that? Well, there was time to worry about it later. Now there was business that was a little more pressing.

"Look, Mark," he started after a few moments of silence, "I'm not quite sure what's going on. What happened?"

Now _that_ was a loaded question.

"What do you mean, exactly?" There were too many different ways to interpret that one, and Mark didn't want to screw this up.

"Just what I said. What did you do after leaving New York? How is it that you're here, now?"

Mark sighed, then explained to him all that he'd done after leaving New York, trying to summarize it all quickly. Arriving in LA, finding a job at Vivre, all the way up to earlier this evening when he'd learned that Christian was planning on doing a story on Roger's band.

"I didn't know you were in LA before today. When I heard you'd been signed with Capitol and were playing tonight, well… I just couldn't help but come to see you." Roger felt a pang of pain when he realized that Mark hadn't been planning on reuniting with him. It stung.

"So, you weren't expecting to see me?" he asked quietly, trying to process all the information he'd been given. Mark winced.

"Not… not yet, Roger. It just kind of… happened." Roger felt anger swell inside him.

"So when _were_ you planning on coming back, Mark? Hoping that I'd finally be in a fucking _coffin _before you had to face me again?" He knew the minute he said it that it wasn't true, that he was being unfair, but he couldn't help it. He'd been hurt so badly by Mark leaving. And even though he wanted Mark back, for things to go back to how they were more than anything, he couldn't help but voice some of the bitter thoughts he'd had.

Mark slumped, feeling hot tears coming to his eyes, wanting to disappear under the shame he felt weighing down on him. Here it was, the rejection he'd been expecting from the beginning.

"It's not like that, Roger," he choked out, his vision blurring with tears as he looked away. "I just…"

The rage was building in Roger at the weak answer. Rising to his feet, he glared down at him, ignoring the fact that his own eyes had started to burn.

"_What_ was it fucking like then, Mark? You left without letting me know _anything_! How the hell am I _supposed_ to react to that?" he was shouting, but his voice kept raising louder. He could feel the anger and hurt clawing at his stomach. He hated feeling this helpless. "You were _gone_! Fucking left just like everybody else I've ever cared about! How could you betray me like that, Mark?" _How could you be happy without me there? Don't you need me at all? Like I need you? _his mind screamed, but he bit down on his tongue, tasting blood.

Mark was shaking now, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. All the guilt he'd felt at leaving like he had, all the angry questions he'd asked himself in the dead of night were rushing at him accusingly out of his best friend's mouth. And he knew he deserved it, deserved it and much worse. Roger had every right to walk out the door and never come back, leave Mark like Mark had left him. But the thought of that made his blood run cold, made his stomach do flops. He couldn't stand to lose Roger. Not again. He wasn't strong enough. But he knew he couldn't stop it from happening, either.

"I… that is… I couldn't," he stuttered, trying to form a coherent sentence. He could feel the tears flowing freely down his face, but he couldn't bring himself to wipe them away. The guilt was tearing him up inside. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to hear Roger slam the door on his way out.

Roger stopped in his tirade long enough to look down. He froze at the pained, panicked look on Mark's face, his trembling form trying vainly to stifle the sobs. He looked so God damn _miserable, _it twisted at Roger's chest. _Shit._ Mark had probably been tormenting himself about this the entire time. He had the worst guilt complex of anyone Roger had ever met. With a start, Roger realized that they were both standing here letting the doubts run rampant. All they were doing was hurting themselves more. This wouldn't accomplish anything.

He leaned down and lifted Mark from the couch, staring into startled crystal blue eyes. He pulled his friend into a hug much like the one they'd shared only an hour earlier, letting his own tears soak into the filmmaker's hair, stroking his back in an attempt to calm him. Letting out shushing noises, he rocked them slightly back and forth, hearing Mark let out a few more hiccuping sobs.

The relief Mark felt when Roger pulled him into a hug drained out of him in sobs. He clung desperately to the song writer, trying to murmur apologies through his tears. Roger just shushed him, his presence flooding into Mark's senses, a balm to his frazzled nerves. He calmed down slowly, still holding on.

Roger leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing off the tears that still rested on his friend's cheeks. How did Mark do this to him? It was damn near completely out of character for him to be this caring and sympathetic. He guessed it must come from years of being roommates and best friends. Sometimes, though, the bond he had with Mark seemed like it couldn't be described in such shallow terms. Mark was much more than that.

"I'm sorry, Roger," Mark choked out, his eyes squinting shut again as a fresh flood of tears threatened to be unleashed. "It killed me to leave. I just, I _had _to."

"But why, Mark?" Roger asked, still confused. Mark slumped again.

"I don't really think I can explain it, Roger," Mark whispered. "I'm still trying to figure it out. I just needed to leave. I'll tell you when I understand it more, but right now, I just don't know." He knew it sounded lame, but it was the truth. Roger let out a long sigh.

"Okay," he said, lowering them both back down to sit on the couch. "I think I can deal with that." He realized he still had his hand on Mark's shoulder, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away. He needed to know that Mark was really here, that he wasn't going anywhere. It was an illogical fear, but a strong one.

Mark placed his own hand over the one Roger had on his shoulder and squeezed.

"Thanks," he said simply. Roger gave a slight smile, and Mark returned it tentatively.

"So," he started after a few moments of silence. "What now?"

"Well," Mark muttered, his gaze shifting over nervously. "Do you think that, maybe, we could… I dunno… just, start over?" Roger gifted him with a smile that finally reached his eyes.

"Yeah. I think that's a good idea," he said.

_Besides, I don't ever want to lose you again._

_

* * *

Three hours later; 4 am: _

Mark yawned loudly, his eyes cracking open to see Roger sprawled over the couch next to him. Mark was leaning over the other end of the couch, their legs tangled in the middle. He looked at the clock.

Damn. He'd probably drifted off about a half hour ago. And he had work in the morning. Fuck it. Beth would understand if he called in sick. After the emotional roller coaster he'd just been on, he didn't think he'd be up for going in. Even though he'd have to deal with the suggestive innuendoes Chris would rain on him when he finally _did_ come in. He could just hear them now.

He groaned softly, untangling his legs from Roger and stretching. They'd spent the last few hours talking comfortably, the awkwardness between them disappearing after their blow-up. Roger had filled Mark in on everything that had gone on while Mark was gone, and Mark had told Roger all about his life in LA. Mark marveled at how it had been so easy to fall back into their old routine even after everything that had happened. Roger just made him feel so calm, so safe, even… loved. He knew he'd never be able to leave his side again. He just…fit there, somehow.

He gave a soft smile as Roger snorted, murmured something incoherent in his sleep and turned over. For all his bad ass image, the guitarist could be really adorable when he let his guard down.

Mark froze at his last thought. Roger? Adorable? Meh. He supposed it was true, but that didn't make the thought any less strange. He didn't want to analyze it now. He'd just gotten Roger back.

With a slight twinge of guilt, he remembered some of the harsher things Roger had said tonight when he'd been upset. His mood darkened when he remembered one particular accusation, that Mark had only been waiting for Roger to die before he'd see it fit to return. He knew that it was only Roger lashing out, voicing his own fears of never seeing Mark again, but Mark knew that there was a strong basis for it.

Roger had HIV. As much as Mark was tempted to forget it, he knew it was only a matter of time before Roger succumbed to the disease just like Angel, Collins and Mimi had. And with a morbid certainty, Mark knew that he probably wouldn't survive the loss this time.

_Snap out of it_, he thought, forcing himself to stand and walk to his room, refusing to wallow in self-pity. He grabbed an extra pillow and a blanket, going back out to the living room and gently rearranging his best friend on the couch so he'd be more comfortable. He propped the pillow behind his head and laid the blanket over him after pulling his sneakers off. Mark smirked. Roger slept like the dead. With another twinge of guilt, he saw the bags under the guitarist's eyes and knew that Roger was probably _really_ sleeping for the first time in a long time. He hoped he'd be able to sleep just as well tonight. He gave out a contented sigh. God knew they both needed it.

Without really thinking about it, Mark bent over and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Roger's ear. With a start, he remembered how his heart had begun to beat faster at some of Roger's gentler actions, how a lump had formed in his throat and excitement had pooled deep in his stomach. He cursed himself for it, standing up and walking into his bedroom.

A small part of him had hoped he would've gotten over the slight infatuation he'd held for Roger since shortly after Mimi's death. Resolutely, he refused to give in to any of those feelings. He'd just gotten another chance. He wouldn't screw this up. His head hit his pillow, and just before he drifted to sleep, there was one last thought swirling in his mind.

_I won't let myself fall in love with him._

_

* * *

Two hours later; 6 am: _

Roger woke up with a jolt, his shocked senses taking a minute to remind himself where he was. Mark's apartment. That's right, Mark was back. A smile lit his lips, and he sighed happily. Everything would be okay.

He was lying on the couch, a pillow under his head and a blanket over him, his shoes laying on the floor beside him. He grinned. Mark could be such a mother hen sometimes. And he realized he wouldn't have him any other way.

Who was it, after all, who had taken care of him during those agonizing months after April's death? Who had stood by him through everything, always reminding him to eat, to take his AZT? The amount of care Mark always gave astounded him. Who the hell would've thought that Roger was worth all that time and energy? He owed so much to his best friend.

He came to a screeching halt at this realization. It was true, he owed Mark his life and more. Then surely he could forgive Mark for a moment of weakness, for ten months of absence when he'd stuck by Roger's side for years before that. He owed it to him. And he didn't want anything to jeopardize their new-found friendship. It might take some work, but he could do it. He would forgive and forget.

He realized that the old Roger probably would have held a grudge for years, even after agreeing to start over with Mark. But that was a long time ago. He'd learned different. Collins had taught him, Angel had taught him, Mimi had taught him. He wouldn't let it get in his way. Life was too short.

With a start, he heard a slight rustling and a muffled whimper from the direction of what he assumed was Mark's bedroom. He realized that the small noise was probably what had woken him up in the first place. Pulling the covers back, he padded across the carpet and into his best friend's room.

Through the darkness, he saw that Mark had thrown the blankets off his bed, the sheets tangled constrictively around his legs. His eyes, no longer hidden behind bulky glasses, were clenched tightly shut, his hands fisted on the mattress. He let out another slight whimper and tossed around.

"No…" came the whisper from between parched lips. Mark must be having one hell of a nightmare.

Roger walked over quietly, settling on the edge of the bed and lifting his hand to smooth at Mark's brow. It surprised him again how easy it was to do this for his best friend, to comfort him like this. It was certainly not something he would have done before. Maybe it was because he was so grateful to have found Mark, when he had resigned himself to never seeing him again. He realized that Mark had probably spent many nights by his bedside doing the same type of thing when he'd been going through withdrawal. _Well, I guess it's time to start paying him back,_ he thought with a slight smile.

Mark whimpered again, a lone tear sliding out of his clenched eyelids. Roger frowned and wiped it away gently. He hated to see Mark cry. Mark was made to smile.

"Shh, Mark, it's okay," he soothed, stroking his hand through the filmmaker's hair.

He was startled at how vulnerable, at how _young _Mark looked. But then he _was_ young, wasn't he? He was two years younger than Roger, only twenty-five. And three years ago he'd only been twenty-two. _Jesus_. Mark definitely had a hidden strength to get through what he had back then at such a young age. He was probably the strongest out of all of them. He was what had held their family together. Roger knew he would have buckled under that pressure.

It clicked in Roger's mind that Mark was only now starting to show signs of all that stress. Hell, this was the first time Roger had really seen Mark cry since he'd known him. Of course. Why hadn't Roger noticed before? Maybe that was a big part of the reason that Mark had left. The pressure building up over the years, the loss of so many friends, maybe it had finally pushed Mark past the point where he could handle it. Roger could understand that only too well.

Mark gravitated toward the source of comfort Roger was giving him. His hands darted out to clutch at Roger, his face burrowing into the guitarist's palm.

"Please…. please don't leave me," he murmured, more tears slipping down his cheeks.

With a start, Roger realized that Mark was still asleep. He watched the tears falling down his flushed cheeks. That was enough. He climbed up farther on the bed, gently gathering the filmmaker into his arms, resting Mark's head on his shoulder as he slid down, lying next to him.

"I'm here, Mark," he whispered into his ear, still stroking his fingers through short blonde hair, trying not to wake him. "You're not alone."

Mark sighed and seemed to calm as Roger brushed the last of the tears away. He fell into a deeper sleep, snuggled into Roger's side.

Impulsively, Roger leaned over and placed a gentle kiss to Mark's temple, letting his fingers slow in their rhythmic stroking through his hair. He felt his eyelids get heavy. Feeling the slight moisture still on his fingertips from Mark's tears, he made him a silent promise.

_You'll never have to cry alone again._

_

* * *

2 hours later; 8 am:_

Roger drifted in and out of consciousness for a few minutes. Finally, his stomach made a particularly vicious growling noise. He decided he was more hungry than tired at the moment. Time to get up, root around Mark's apartment for something to eat, then go back to bed and sleep for the foreseeable future. Right.

His arms reached over his head as he stretched, and he climbed out of the bed carefully when he saw that Mark was still cuddled up to his side so he wouldn't disturb him. He stood, stooping over slightly to rearrange the blankets so that Mark would be warm. The filmmaker gave a little grunt to protest the loss of extra body-heat, but quickly snuggled down into the blankets again without waking.

Roger smiled and leaned down a little more, stopping with a start when he realized he'd just been about to kiss Mark on the forehead before leaving to make something. He asked, not for the first time, what the hell had gotten into him. He was having to literally fight himself to keep his hands off the filmmaker. Overlaying everything was a huge relief at having him back, but underneath there was a deep affection that he hadn't felt since… well, since Mimi.

He walked out of the bedroom, his brow furrowed. Did that mean he was _attracted_ to Mark, then? Sure, Roger'd never really had any problems with guys liking guys; he'd lived with Collins for years. But just what kind of attraction was he feeling towards his best friend? What did he want?

His head spinning, he rummaged around the cupboards in the kitchen for something edible. Well, no use thinking about it now. Even if he _was_ attracted to Mark, there was no way he would pursue it. Mark meant too much to him for Roger to mess up anything they had. For now, he'd focus on building their friendship back up.

He was looking in the shelves under the sink when the phone rang, making him jump and bang his head. With a muffled curse, he walked over and grabbed it, turning it on.

"Hello?" he practically growled.

"Heeeeey," came the slightly surprised, drawn out answer. "Geez, I don't suppose I have the wrong number? This is Christian."

Roger thought for a minute. Oh, yeah. Christian was that guy who worked with Mark. The show's host.

"Um, no, this is the right number. Mark's asleep. This is Roger."

"Damn. You don't waste any time, do you?" Roger's eyes bugged out.

"Excuse me?" Christian chuckled.

"Never mind. I suppose it really isn't any of my business." Was it just Roger, or did Christian's voice sound slightly… disappointed?

"Um… okay," he muttered after a minute. Damn, this was weird. And awkward. Well, Roger supposed he could understand what this looked like, but still…

"Well, I just called to let Mark know that he shouldn't bother coming in today. Beth says we've been working him to death lately, and he deserves a day off. I've got Dan here, anyway. It'll be fun to break the poor boy in when Mark isn't here to protect him." Somehow, Roger felt very sorry for this 'Dan' kid.

"Right."

"Well, I guess I'll talk to you later, or something."

"Sure." Did Roger mention this was awkward?

"Toodles!" Roger stared at the beeping phone with an incredulous look on his face. He sighed and turned it off. The dial tone was bugging him.

He eyed the coffee-maker, delighted to find that it had turned itself on earlier. Nice. Their old one didn't have a timer. Grabbing himself a mug, he looked through the refrigerator, letting out a little exclamation of triumph when he found leftover Chinese take-out. Breakfast of champions.

He was halfway through the box when a very rumpled looking Mark dragged himself into the kitchen. Roger grinned. Mark never had been a morning person. Come to think of it, neither was Roger. But he guessed it was only natural that he was in such a good mood.

Mark squinted in Roger's direction, saw the half-eaten take-out and sighed.

"You do know how incredibly disgusting and unhealthy it is to eat cold Chinese for breakfast?" he mumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"That's your opinion," Roger smiled, shoving another bite into his mouth. Mark just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a few moments, a thought hit him.

"Am I going crazy, or did the phone ring a while ago?"

"I'm sure you lost any scrap of sanity you had left long ago, Marky, but yeah, the phone rang."

"You pick it up?"

"Yeah. It was that Christian-guy you work with. He said that you didn't have to come in today." Mark slumped a little with an exasperated smirk.

"Crap. I'm sure when I _do_ come in he'll have assumed a lot of things. I won't be surprised if they throw a 'Mark lost his virginity' party." Roger laughed.

"Yeah, I kinda got that impression from him." He paused for a minute, sipping at his coffee. "Sooo, since _you're _not doing anything today, and _I'm _not doing anything today, wanna not do anything together?" he asked, eating a few more bites of take-out.

"Sure," Mark smiled, and those were _not _butterflies floating around Roger's stomach. "How 'bout I show you around LA?"

"Sounds like a plan. But first, I wouldn't mind getting a couple more hours of sleep."

"You read my mind."

They finished their breakfast in a companionable silence. Mark took the dirty mug from Roger and placed it in the sink. They left the kitchen, bumping into eachother as they both headed to the bedroom.

"Um… you want me to take the couch since you got stuck with it last night?" Mark asked.

Roger could've smacked himself. He'd just automatically started heading for the bedroom. And Mark had been asleep when he woke up, so he didn't know that Roger had kind of… visited him last night. Somehow, he didn't like the idea of Mark heading to the couch, though, or vice versa.

"It's a big bed," he observed. "We can share." He saw Mark's eyes widen fractionally, but he gave him a slightly pleading look before he was refused outright. He knew it didn't make sense, but Roger still wanted to be sure that Mark wasn't going anywhere. Mark smiled slightly and shook his head.

"Okay. I guess that works."

After making themselves comfortable, Mark reached over and turned off the bedside lamp.

"'Night, Roger," he said through a yawn. Roger smiled.

"'Night, Mark."

As he drifted off to sleep, Roger felt happier than he had in years.

* * *

YAY! Review if you love me! If you don't... I'll just cry... :tears: You don't want that... do you? 


	8. Chapter 8

**MUAHAHAHAAA! **We are getting closer to the smut, my friends... cllloooossseeeerrr. I can almost taste it. Strangely, I seem to be just as anxious for them to hurry up and _screw_ already as most of my reviewers seem to be.

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the release of the movie, which was a huge catalyst for writing it. I had been deprived for sooooo long... :sniff:. All is well now, though. And those deleted scenes were AWESOME. So without further... stuff... here's chapter 8!

_

* * *

5 hours later; 1:48 pm: _

Mark let out a soft moan as he woke, opening his eyes slowly. Sleepily, he realized he was very warm. This was good. Mark was almost always freezing. Probably attributed to the whole, 'skinny Jewish boy with bad circulation' thing. He snuggled back down into the firm pillow, breathing in through his nose heavily and drifting back off to the pleasant smell of… _Roger!_

Mark's eyes snapped open and he realized that yes, he was currently cuddled up to one Roger Davis, lead guitarist, ex-druggie badass. And he smelled like a combination of cinnamon, trees, hair gel and musk. Not a bad smell. However, Mark was now painfully aware of the fact that Roger's arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, he himself had a death-grip around Roger's chest, and his head was rested comfortably on a strong shoulder. Once again, this wasn't necessarily a _bad_ thing, except that Roger was decidedly off-limits. And somehow, Mark's body didn't really seem to agree with his mind.

Feeling the blush pulsing over his neck and face, he scooted out of the bed gently, careful not to disturb his sleeping friend. Once free, he gave a heartfelt sigh of relief when he realized that Roger hadn't woken up. His heart still pounding in his chest, he got up and walked to the kitchen, pouring out a glass of water to deal with his suddenly dry mouth.

_I hate how you do this to me,_ he thought at the still-sleeping musician.

It wasn't fair, really. Mark cared for Roger a lot – _loved him_, a corner of his mind he didn't want to acknowledge whispered. However, Roger had always been and always would be off-limits. There were any number of reasons in the past, just as there were any number of reasons now. When he'd first met Roger, it had just been hero-worship, a crush, nothing to base a real relationship off of. After that, there'd been the drug addiction, April's death, Roger's withdrawal.

And Mark had no allusions about the role he'd played in making Roger well. He'd just kept him alive long enough so that a young dancer with deep brown eyes could really _save_ him. Mark had never been angry at her for it, had never wondered why all it took for her was a candle and a smile to accomplish the very thing Mark had been working, hoping, even _praying_ for, for more sleepless nights than he could count. Mark had never begrudged Mimi the fact that Roger loved her. Because he loved Mimi too, if not for saving his best friend, than for herself. He'd come to think of her as a sort of spunky younger sibling.

Losing her had been hard, especially so because of that tiny voice in the back of his mind that had said, _Now's your chance_. He'd smothered out that feeling, hated it, because he couldn't _really _think that, could he? He'd loved Mimi in his own way, missed her just as fiercely as everyone else. Mark refused to allow himself to be selfish, even in his thoughts.

So now where were they? Almost three years after Mimi's death, ten months since he'd run away from New York – because as much as he hated to admit it, he _had_ been running away, hadn't he? Refusing to deal with the pain, robbing himself of ten whole months he could have spent with Roger. He smirked over a sip of water. He was such a God damned hypocrite.

He looked up to see Roger walking out of the bedroom, his hair rumpled and sleep clinging to his eyes. He smiled.

"How'd you sleep?" Mark asked, leaning against the counter. Roger yawned , then bent back, stretching.

"Really good, actually," he replied with a grin. He'd woken up a few minutes earlier, the bed less warm and feeling oddly empty. But he still couldn't remember the last time he'd slept this well had been.

"Mmm," Mark mumbled into his glass. "You wanna use the shower? Then we can take a tour around the city. I'll show you my favorite restaurant."

"Sure. Sounds good," Roger admitted. Mark pointed him in the direction of the bathroom, then sat down to read the paper.

Anything to keep his mind off the thought of that rush of water hitting smooth, naked skin.

_The next day; 3 pm: _

"Maaaark," Chris crooned, waving a hand in front of the spaced-out filmmaker's face. "Earth to Mark!" Mark snapped to attention.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Jesus, man," Chris exclaimed with a grin. "That's the third time today. Memories of a certain blonde guitarist with nimble fingers keeping you occupied? _Pleasant_ memories, I suppose?" Mark blushed.

Truthfully, he_ had_ been thinking of Roger. He'd been remembering yesterday, going over the way Roger had smiled, the way he'd loved Mark's favorite places, the way everything had felt so comfortable between them, so _right. _For a time, Mark could pretend that he'd never left New York. After a long day of sight-seeing, talking and just hanging around, Roger had finally gone back to his apartment late last night. Mark had walked him back, they'd exchanged numbers and promised to call sometime today. Nothing had felt contrived or faked, and Mark had left with a feeling of warmth washing over him. His friendship with Roger was back on track, and Mark couldn't remember the last time he'd been so happy.

"It's not like that, Christian," he corrected his friend. "He's just my friend. Well, my _best _friend from back in New York, but still just a friend."

"Uh-huh," Chris deadpanned. He didn't sound convinced at all. Mark sighed. He didn't blame him. He was even having a hard time believing himself.

"Listen, Christian, it's just… complicated. Lay off, would you?"

"'Kay. I can lay off, if _you _stay focused. Why don't we take ten, and you can spill everything that happened yesterday with song-boy."

"He _does _have a name. It's Roger." Christian grinned.

"So protective! How cute!" Mark groaned.

Chris led him to the break room, practically dragging Mark along in his desire to hear all the juicy details. Not that there _were_ any. He sat down and grabbed them a couple coffees. Scooting his chair up close to Mark's, he took a sip and smiled.

"Okay. You. Talk."

"What about?"

"I'm getting tired of all this avoidance, Mark. You know damn well what. Start after you left from the concert the other day."

Mark sighed. He'd known he'd be dodging Christian's questions all day, but this was just ridiculous. Apparently, he wasn't going to give up until Mark let him know everything. And knowing Christian, never giving up meant bugging the hell out of Mark until he cracked. Better to get this over with.

He briefly outlined everything that happened, going back and clarifying when Christian asked questions. And Christian asked a _lot _of questions. He left out some of the more personal parts, but Chris seemed to understand, only pushing for answers where he knew he could get something out of him eventually.

"Hell, Mark. He slept in your _bed _with you. I'll eat my hair if he isn't interested. And you know how fond I am of my hair."

"I don't know, Christian. I don't want to screw up what we've got. And I'm sure for Roger, it was nothing but platonic. Like I said, it's complicated."

"Hmmm… so you're not denying that _you're _attracted?"

"Tha-That wasn't what I– !" Christian cut him off with a laugh that could only be described as a cackle.

"Ha! I _knew _it! You do love him!" Mark opened his mouth, and Chris cut him off again. "And don't you _dare _try to deny it Cohen! I know you better than you think."

Mark could only stare, shocked, at his friend. How the hell had Chris figured all this out? Chris sobered, his eyes softening and a slight smile on his lips.

"I could see the way you looked at him, Mark," he said quietly. "I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid. I don't know all your reasons for leaving New York, but I _do _know that a lot of it, if not all of it, had to do with him. He must be really important to you. I hope he lives up to my standards. I wouldn't give you up to just _anyone _you know." He grinned, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

"Christian…" Mark started.

"I know, I know. We've been over this. And it's okay, Mark. I understand and we weren't meant to be and all that jazz. But if he hurts you, I swear to God I'll kill him." Mark snorted.

"As if you'd dirty your hands. How would you get the bloodstains off your designer shoes?"

"That's what hit-men are for." They shared a grin. Christian glanced at the clock.

"Well, ten minutes are up. Back to work. At least think about what I said, okay? It wouldn't hurt to admit you were in love, even if it was only to yourself." He left the break room, Mark following, thoughts churning in his head.

Maybe Chris was right.

_2 weeks, 3 days later; Saturday night, 6 pm: _

Roger walked up the two flights of stairs to Mark's apartment. It was hard to believe it had been only a little over two weeks since Mark and him had been reunited. They'd fit together again like a pair of old gloves – even though he winced at the cheesy mental analogy. It was true, though. After they'd gotten past the initial problems, everything seemed to be working out. Sure, it was strange having Mark back in his life and not coming home to him at night, not looking up to see Mark walk in chatting excitedly about his day filming. Perhaps the space was just what they needed. It certainly wasn't hurting, and their friendship was steadily becoming stronger, back to the way it had been before Mark left.

He sighed. Therein lay his problem. Being friends with Mark again was easy, natural, but he'd found himself wanting to go farther than that. Like when Mark's eyes would light up, or he would give that lopsided grin, or make a comment that was particularly Markish… Pretty much anything he did could make Roger just feel the urge to hug him, to kiss him, and that's what was scary.

It wasn't as if being attracted to Mark was frightening. That certainly wasn't anything new. Roger could remember countless times in the past that he'd been attracted in a romantic way to his best friend, but he'd never really pursued it. Mark deserved better than what he could give him. There'd always been something else on his mind that seemed more pressing, and he hadn't wanted to jeopardize the one truly good thing he had going for him. Funny, even though other things had come and gone, Mark had always been there, a figure at his side, a feeling in the pit of his stomach, a voice in the back of his head.

No, the thing that was scary was the _urgency _of his old feelings. They were rearing up at him, forcing to be acknowledged, when before he'd always been able to lie to himself or to ignore them completely. He had to hold himself back consciously, to force himself to not reach out, when it felt like it would be the most natural thing to hold hands, to kiss Mark on the cheek when he said or did something particularly endearing.

His hand reached out and grabbed the door leading to the hallway, and he felt his ring press into his skin. That was another thing. Roger wasn't sure if he was ready to give up Mimi, wasn't sure if he was truly done grieving yet. It wouldn't be fair to start a relationship with anyone if he wasn't ready to move on. He _had_ loved her, passionately, more deeply than he'd loved anyone else in his life. Well, except maybe for Mark.

Roger froze.

_I just admitted that I love him,_ he thought, shocked, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

Leave it to Roger to have an epiphany in a deserted hallway.

After a few moments of collecting himself, Roger started walking slowly again. He decided that there wasn't anything to do about it now. Resolutely pushing all doubts and newly admitted feelings to the back of his mind, he stopped in front of Mark's apartment. He rose his hand to knock, pausing before his fist hit the wood when he heard a commotion inside.

"But _Maarky!_ You promised!"

"I didn't 'promise' anything, Christian! I said I _might _go if there was nothing else to do!"

"Well, what are you doing?"

"Nothing. But that's beside the fucking point!"

"I think that _is _the fucking point!"

"Do you just _enjoy _driving me bat-shit, or…?"

Mark was cut off when Roger finally decided to knock. This sounded interesting. He wondered what in the hell was going on.

A very relieved looking Mark answered the door, a slightly peeved looking Christian, putting out a great effort to look disaffected by anything, in the background.

"Hey, Rog! What's up?" Mark moved aside and let the musician in.

"Just got outta work. Finally finished recording that new song. Since your place is closer, I figured I'd stop by and see if you were in. Hey, Chris," he greeted. Chris looked up and beamed at him.

"Good. Well, now that _you're _here, Roger my boy, why don't _you _try persuading him to come out with me to that new club. I'd even invite you and that band of yours as a reward." He ended his proposition with a beaming smile.

"Gee, glad to know we'd warrant an invitation," Roger said dryly, rolling his eyes. "Why do you need _my_ help?"

"Like I said, Rogey, you're probably the only one who can convince him. He's in 'stubborn Jewish mother' mode," Christian explained. Mark nearly growled.

"I'm not being stubborn."

"Fine. You're being peevish and contrary. C'mon, Mark! I need you to make sure my alcohol intake stays at a level so that I'll only drunkenly proposition the _hot_ guys!"

"Like you'd need any help with that. Even if you were drunk, high and blind you'd still be able to spot someone wearing last season's pants and reject him on grounds of a 'higher moral principle'." Chris pouted.

"That's _not _the point and you know it. When was the last time you went out with me anyway? Ever since hair-boy blows into town, you have no time for me. No offense, Roger," he added as an afterthought.

"None taken."

"You are so high maintenance," Mark groaned.

"So are Ferrari's. Just shows I'm of a higher caliber than the rest of you mortals." Both Mark and Roger couldn't hold back a smirk at that statement.

"I think you should go, Mark. We could all stand to relax. I know everyone's been working their asses off this week," Roger reasoned. Mark sighed.

"Fine," he mumbled.

Christian smiled and pecked the still-scowling Mark on the cheek. Roger's eyes narrowed involuntarily, a fierce possessiveness twisting his insides. He ignored it as best he could. Slowly, he relaxed fists that had been clenched at his sides.

"There, was that so hard?" Christian was asking a now slightly blushing Mark. He couldn't decide whether to be amused or saddened by the fact that Mark looked nervously over to see Roger's reaction. He settled on amused. It was less depressing.

Mark had missed the flash of anger on Roger's face, but smiled gratefully when the guitarist grinned reassuringly at his nervous glance.

"So, Roger, you gonna come along?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, sure. Let me just run home and call Blake. He'd be pissed if we left him out, especially since Jeff scored a date tonight."

"Okay," Mark said. "Why don't you meet us back here in a couple hours?"

"Sounds good. See you then."

He walked out the door, unable to resist in planting a firm hand on Mark's shoulder as he passed, squeezing slightly with a smile. Then he was gone.

Mark smiled back at the closed door, and turned around to see Christian staring at him intently. There was a disturbing look of rapt concentration on his face. Oh, shit. This couldn't be good.

"Christian?" he squeaked out. The grin that lit his friend's face was positively _evil. _He stalked up to Mark, grabbing his arm and dragging him towards the bathroom.

"Come, my dear Miss Doolittle. We have work to do."

_2 hours, 17 minutes later:_

Roger knocked on Mark's door for the second time that night, backing up to wait and bumping into Blake slightly. Once he'd finally gotten a hold of the bass player, he'd happily agreed to come out with them. Well, maybe _happily _wasn't the right word.

"I mean, can you _believe _that pretender went and asked out Donna? I mean, don't get me wrong, Jeff's ma boy and all, but that don't give him the right to be huntin' on my grounds, if you know what I'm sayin'," Blake droned on behind him. He hadn't stopped since showing up at Roger's apartment. Roger prayed to all that was holy that Blake managed to find a girl to keep him occupied tonight, or this would be exhausting.

"I know, Blake," he said, indulging him for now.

"I mean, shit man, a fine sistah like Donna… way too much for Jeff to handle. Probably end up passin' me the reigns he if knows what's good for him…"

Roger was just about to whirl on Blake and tell him that just because he'd discovered the use of metaphors recently didn't mean he had to use them all the time, when the door opened. Chris stood there, looking like a contented cat who'd just discovered a very large bowl of cream. It made Roger nervous. Nervous enough that he'd just used _another _metaphor in his thoughts of what Chris looked like. Blake was rubbing off on him. Fuck.

"Hello boys! Blake! So glad you could come!" Chris announced brightly. He'd hung out with Blake a few times after meeting him during the interview, and oddly, the two had seemed to hit it off. Roger smiled. Their arrogance certainly matched.

"How's it hangin', dog?" Blake asked, gripping Christian's hand, pulling them together and thumping him on the back.

"I'm perfect, thanks for asking. You two certainly look less… hetero… than you usually do. A vast improvement," Chris complimented.

Roger snorted. Blake had simply put on a clean shirt, some black slacks and intense after-shave. His goatee was just as unkempt, five o'clock shadow running down his neck, and his dreadlocks were as long and unruly as always.

Chris had definitely put an effort into dressing up, but he always did, and there wasn't much of a change from two hours ago. He was just naturally stunning, and he didn't need anything to dress that up. Well, besides the hair. But that was such an integral part of Chris that it wasn't worth taking note of.

Roger had changed into one of his favorite stage outfits. A pair of worn jeans hugged his hips, held up by a studded belt. A form-fitting vintage t-shirt was hidden beneath his ever-present leather jacket. He'd tried to mess with his hair a little, but it had just come out looking more messy than usual. Oddly, the 'just rolled out of bed' look really worked for him.

"Shit, man. You know I always look hot," Blake stated with a grin. Roger wondered if they'd try to out-ego each other. That would be interesting.

"Don't be so modest, Blake," Christian beamed, and was about to continue, when Roger cut him off.

"Hey, are we ready to go? Where's Mark?"

"Oh, right. Mark! Get your cute ass out here!" Chris hollered in the direction of the bedroom. Roger's eyebrow twitched. The door opened a crack.

"I _have_ told you how much I hate you, right?" Mark muttered through the door, still out of sight.

"In explicit detail," Chris assured him. There was a tired sigh, and then the door swung the rest of the way open.

Roger promptly forgot how to breathe.

Mark looked… _hot. _There was no other way to describe it. Tight leather pants clung to his small frame, topped by a bright blue silk button up shirt that matched his eyes perfectly. A simple leather necklace rested on his collarbone, gracing the soft, pale skin left showing from the two top buttons being left undone. There was something different about his hair – it looked slightly more disheveled than the normal orderly spikes. And (Roger swallowed a dry lump that had formed in his throat) he had on the tiniest bit of eyeliner – just enough to make his blue eyes look even bluer behind his glasses.

"_Damn_," Blake breathed in approval. "What happened to you?"

"I was attacked by a rabid homosexual," Mark answered, sparing a glare at Chris.

"You're welcome!" Chris answered with a grin.

"I just hope I get through this evening with my dignity intact," Mark muttered.

"You're such a whiner Mark! You look…" Christian paused, searching for the correct words.

"Really good," Roger supplied. "Jesus, Mark. You should stray away from the Jewish filmmaker look more often."

"Gee, thanks," Mark muttered sarcastically, but there was just the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks.

"Well, kiddies, enough making goo-goo eyes at each other. Let's get going!" Chris declared, leading the way out of the apartment.

He held the door open for everyone and trailed behind, making a note of the slightly glazed and hungry look in Roger's eyes as he stole a glance at Mark's ass. Christian grinned maniacally.

That had been easier than he thought.

* * *

Well, the next chapter should be out fairly soon, as I've had it in my mind and outlined on notebook paper for quite a while now. By this weekend I should post it I hope. REVIEW FOR ME! It gives meaning to my life... 

Oh, and just to clarify... this is what Mark's shirt would look like: http/ the icky pattern of course...

Think what Anthony wore in the RENT5 reuinion.


	9. Chapter 9

**MUAHA! **I got it out on time! For once! I said it shall be out this weekend and it is still this weekend! YAY! Who cares about those papers I didn't do and that test I didn't study for? All I gotta say is, you guys better enjoy this. And review. Or that F I'm gonna get on tomorrow's test shall be in vain. VAIN, I SAY! ahem Anyways, here you go...  
_

* * *

_

_20 minutes later at the club: _

Mark followed Chris into the new club, wincing slightly as he was assaulted by bright flashing lights and pumping music. Mark didn't really like clubs. They were too hormone driven – he preferred a crowded restaurant full of friends. This one didn't look too bad, though.

It had opened last week, and was quickly becoming a popular spot among those embroiled in the LA night life. The dance floor was the standard strobe-lit area full of pulsing, grinding dancers, but the bar was set off to the side, and there was a small side room full of booths and tables where customers could take a break from the loud music. The decor was very well done too – it was modern without being tacky. Mark liked it immediately.

"Let's grab a table!" Chris shouted over the sound of the music, and they all followed him to a dimly lit booth in the corner.

Mark sighed in relief as the music got quieter when they moved away from the dance floor. He waited while everyone else sat down and threw his coat down on the seat next to Roger.

"I'm gonna go get something to drink. Anyone want anything?" he asked, hooking his thumb in the direction of the bar.

"Sure!" Chris beamed. "I'll have sex on the beach!"

"Not gonna happen," Mark said with a smile. "What do you want to drink?" Chris pouted.

"You're no fun," he moaned, reveling in the thinly veiled glare Roger sent his way. "Really, though. That's what I want."

"Okay. Blake, what about you?"

"A sufferin' bastard."

Mark turned to Roger to ask what he wanted. Before he could say anything, though, the guitarist stood up.

"I'll help you," he said with a slight smile. Mark smiled back, feeling his stomach flop. He inwardly groaned. It should be illegal for someone to have a smile like that. It was all Mark could manage to stop himself from jumping the unsuspecting guitarist.

He led the way to the bar, grabbed the attention of the bar-tender, and put in their orders. Roger ordered his regular Jack and Coke, then slumped against the bar next to Mark. Roger felt their shoulders brush, and he repressed a shiver. He cleared his throat.

"So, what do you think of the place?" he asked Mark. Anything to get his mind off of how hot Mark looked, how close he was. All he had to do was lean in just a little bit – Roger snapped his mind back on track before he could get carried away.

"Not as bad as some I've been to. It's actually kinda nice. But you know I don't like clubs."

"Yeah. How long did Chris bother you about it before I showed up?" Mark grinned. He felt slightly out of place here, and he was acutely aware of the clothes he had on, the silk shirt whispering against his skin making him feel even more exposed. Roger had this way of making him forget about everything else, though. No matter what was going on, if Roger was there, Mark could relax.

"Only about an hour." At Roger's horrified look, Mark laughed. "Believe me, that's really not too bad for him. When he wants something, he doesn't stop until he gets it. It may be annoying sometimes, but his stubbornness is probably a big reason the show has done as well as it has. Christian does an incredible amount of work on it. He's not only the host, but he does a lot of the PR, arranges all the interviews, finds most of the stories. He's the one who saw _Today 4 U _ and was adamant that Beth hire me. I owe him a lot."

Roger watched Mark talk about Christian and felt his gut wrench. There was something there; an affection in his eyes as he spoke. Mark obviously cared about the guy a lot. Roger wondered just how deeply, feeling the jealousy coil in his stomach. He tried to fight it. He knew that Chris was a good guy and had probably helped Mark through a lot. He should be thankful for that, not angry because he wasn't the one by Mark's side. He was just being selfish.

"He must be a good friend," he managed to murmur after a moment.

Mark looked up. He didn't know what exactly was going through Roger's head, but he knew that vulnerable look on the guitarist's face only too well. It was the same look Roger had on his face when he'd left for Santa Fe after Angel's funeral, the same look he'd given Mark countless times during withdrawal when he'd been too proud to ask to be held or reassured.

"Yeah. He is a good friend," he answered, putting a hand on Roger's forearm. "I'm lucky, though. He's not the only person who makes my life worth living," he admitted quietly.

He squeezed slightly when Roger met his gaze with a smile. The guitarist put his hand over Mark's on his arm. Detached, almost as if he were watching it from across the bar, Mark felt himself lean in slightly.

Mark came to his senses when he realized how close they were, their faces a few inches apart, Roger's deep green eyes staring into his slightly widening ones. Roger's hand was still resting on his, and Mark knew that they had been standing too close like this, too intimately for it to be just normal friendship. They were starting to cross the line. Even though his mind was screaming out warnings, he couldn't stop himself. Roger was leaning closer…

They jolted out of the moment when the bar tender set their drinks down for them to pick up. Mark swiftly took his hand away, turning and pulling money out of his pocket and placing it on the counter, grabbing two of the drinks. His heart was racing in his chest, but he ignored it as best he could. He was feeling a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. His mind pulled up excuses, justifications, and within a minute he'd convinced himself that he'd misinterpreted what had happened.

Roger cursed under his breath as he followed Mark back to their table. He couldn't believe he'd almost allowed that to happen! If the bartender hadn't come up at just that second, he would've kissed Mark. Those expressive blue eyes had just been drawing him in; it was like he couldn't help himself. This was getting more dangerous every minute he spent in the filmmaker's presence. His flagging self-control was almost gone. He needed to figure out what to do, and fast. It seemed like there was some greater power at work here that wouldn't wait for him.

They slid back into the booth, handing Blake and Chris their drinks. Blake immediately shot his back, but Chris just took his, staring over it and at Mark, an eyebrow raising questioningly. Mark could feel his face start to heat up. Chris had seen what had happened at the bar. No doubt he'd pull Mark aside the first chance he got and drill him about it. Blake gave a slight sigh after pounding back his drink.

"Well, don't know about you, crackas, but there's a couple mad honeys on the dance floor I'd like to get ta know. Time fo' me to go ta work." Roger groaned. Chris watched Blake leave, and his smile was absolutely wicked. Mark gave him a questioning look.

"I have _never _met anyone as closeted as that boy is," he stated simply. "It amuses me." Roger laughed.

"Blake? _Gay?" _he asked incredulously. "C'mon, Chris, you gotta be kidding. He's always going on and on about girls. I mean, shit, he bangs enough groupies every night to more than make up for my abstinence from them." Chris grinned again.

"Exactly. 'Methinks the lady doth protest too much'." Roger laughed again.

"But seriously, that's not enough to decide whether he's gay or not. I mean, there's no real proof there!"

"Honey," Chris started, taking a sip of his drink, "when you're a flamer like me, you tend to get more attuned to noticing where the other sources of heat and smoke are coming from." Mark laughed this time.

"Only you would use that analogy to describe gaydar," he muttered with a smile, taking a swig of his own drink.

"I thought it was a succinct explanation," Chris said, grinning at the filmmaker.

Roger felt a twinge of jealousy again. God, who knew he was so possessive? Okay… so maybe he should've gotten hints as to that side of his nature when Mimi had been with Benny for a while. But still, this was worse than that. Mimi and Benny had actually been _together_. As far as Roger knew, Mark and Christian were just friends. Plus, it wasn't like Mark and him were going out. He sighed, and downed the rest of his drink.

"Mark _fucking _Cohen!" A screech came from across the room.

Seemingly appearing out of nowhere, elbowing aside a few people in her way, a young woman walked up to their table. She had bright red hair, blue eyes, and an outfit that reminded Roger of some of the worse things he'd seen Mimi wear while dancing. She promptly planted herself on Mark's lap without waiting for an invitation to sit down. If Roger could growl, he definitely would be right now.

"Oh my GOD, you look so hot!" the girl on Mark's lap gushed, hugging him around the shoulders and planting two kisses on either cheek.

"Thank you," Chris stated with a grin, but Roger could see the narrowing of his eyes. "However, Elaine, darling, I didn't give Mark my expert advice so that you could put your skanky paws all over him. Now if you'd kindly leave before you ruin the upholstery, we can all get back to the nice time we _were_ having." The girl turned and glared at him.

"I didn't ask for _your _input, pretty boy," she seethed. "At least I don't pretend to be his friend when all I want is to fuck him and leave him like _you've_ done to at least twenty guys I know."

"The day you develop the intelligence to start understanding my motives is the day I'll start having sex with women," Chris stated, venom clear in his tone. "Fuck off, Elaine."

They glared at each other for a very tense moment, then with an indignant flip of her hair, she stood and stomped off in the direction of the dance floor.

"Jesus," Mark said as she left, relief clear in his voice, "I never believed in vampires until I met her. I wonder what the fuck she wanted _this _time?"

"Sex or your help in some sort of project she's working on. Isn't that what she always wants?" Christian asked, his voice still angry. "God damn it, Mark! Why don't you stand up to her every once in a while? I'm not always there to tell her off."

Roger stared. There was genuine concern in Christian's voice, a hint of fear. Something had happened with that girl that Roger didn't know about. He didn't like it.

"I know, I know," Mark moaned, leaning back. "It's just… you know I'm not good at being an asshole like you are." Christian snorted.

"You're too fucking _nice _to everyone, Mark. It's gonna get you into trouble. Not everyone is a good person, and not everyone will be your friend." He sighed, his lips quirking up a little. "How the hell did you survive for so long in New York?" Mark smiled.

"I had friends who looked out for me," he said, glancing at Roger quickly.

"Good. Maybe now that he's back, he can take on some of his old duties. I swear, Mark, you'll drive me to drink." Mark snorted.

"Like one more vice could add to your already impressive list of them."

Roger watched the exchange feeling a little left out. He felt a sick feeling settle in the bottom of his stomach. He knew it was unrealistic and selfish, but he didn't like the idea that there were parts of Mark's life – possibly big parts – that he didn't know about. Mark downed the rest of his drink and stood up.

"I'm going to the bathroom. I gotta at least _try_ to get the smell of her cheap perfume outta my clothes. I'll be right back."

Roger watched his retreating form, then turned back to Chris. He was peeking out at Roger from behind his hair, sipping at his drink. There was a very obviously amused smile on his lips. With a mental shrug, Roger went back to his own drink.

"You're really cute when you're jealous, y'know," Chris stated without looking up. Roger choked on his drink.

"Excuse me?" he asked after he'd gotten done coughing. Chris sighed.

"It's always the good-looking ones who're the densest," he moaned. "Well, except for yours truly." Roger just kept staring at him incredulously, waiting for an explanation.

"It's not like it's so hard to figure out, Rog," Chris continued at his questioning look. "You missed him, him being gone made you realize how you feel about him, and now you want him back as more than a friend. One of the oldest stories in the book."

Roger decided to neither confirm nor deny that one. Chris could probably see right through him anyway. Time for a change of subject.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asked. "Who the hell was that girl?" He could see the anger coming back into Chris' eyes.

"Elaine Davidson. Small time actress. She used to have a pretty successful modeling career, but the photographers didn't take too kindly to it when they had to start figuring out ways to cover up the track marks. Your basic piece of LA scum."

"What does she have to do with Mark?"

"Well, you've probably already noticed this, but Mark has a tendency to help people out even when they probably don't deserve it," Chris said.

Roger gave a slight wince, remembering how Mark had stuck by him all through the withdrawal and the way he'd closed himself off after it. Mark had had every right to give up on him, but he hadn't.

"Elaine met him at one of the company parties. I think one of the people from the PR department was dating her at the time. She was really in the dregs of her career then, and Mark agreed to do a photo shoot for her, free of charge, so she could possibly score a new agent. No one wanted to touch her at that point." He finished his drink and winced.

"She was able to pick up an agent easily enough after she had the photos from Mark's shoot. The guy's got this… I dunno… this ability to bring out the beauty in things. He could make the crack whore on the corner with running make-up, skinned knees and a bruised face look like the fucking Mona Lisa with the right camera angle.

"He's already had at least three big offers from major networks that I know of. I'm sure there's one or two I don't know about. Wouldn't take any of them though. I think he only stays with Vivre because we trust him, let him do his own thing. Stay true to his art, y'know? Every offer he turns down pisses more people off, though. Lots of them would probably kill for some of the same opportunities to sell out he's had.

"Anyway, Elaine latched on to him and never let go. Figured she could still use him for something, I guess."

"I don't know why the hell he puts up with shit like that," Roger muttered, his thoughts trailing back to their life in New York, the faces of all the people Mark had let use him sticking out. The worst had been Maureen. Roger thought Mark would have learned his lesson.

"If you do figure it out, please let me know," Chris mumbled. "It's almost like he _wants _people to use him. Like if he can help them out, even just a little, he doesn't care how hurt he gets in the process. He's too selfless. In this town, people would sleep with their own mother to get a slot on network television. Mark isn't like that, though. He cares too much. That's a rare thing, even if it is kind of naïve of him. I respect him because he's willing care that much, though, and I don't respect anyone."

Roger could feel his jaw clenching. Everything Chris was saying was dead on. It wasn't fair, but that was just the type of person Mark was. Roger was surprised that Chris knew his best friend as well as he did after less than a year of knowing him.

He looked around the room, and saw Mark had stopped on his way back from the bathroom to talk with some people standing around the bar. He laughed at a joke someone had made, and someone clapped a hand to Mark's shoulder. Roger frowned.

"Like I said," he turned back to see Chris had been observing him again, "you're cute when you're jealous."

Roger almost sputtered a little. He didn't like the fact that Chris could see through him so easily. He was about to tell Chris to mind his own damn business, but he was cut off before he could start talking.

"You're so insecure. Really, Roger, you don't have to worry about it. He could've had any number of people in bed by now if he'd wanted to. One flash of those blue eyes and they get in line. His humanity, his integrity, it's refreshing in this sleezy town. People are naturally drawn to it. Present company included." Roger could feel anger welling up inside him. So there _was_ something between Chris and Mark?

"Jesus, that was meant to have a calming effect," Chris muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The point is he _hasn't _taken anyone to bed, Roger, even if he could have. Not me, not any of those vultures gathered around him right now, no one in the whole God damn city. You've got nothing to be jealous of."

Roger felt rightfully sheepish. He felt his face get hot in shame, but Roger Davis did _not _blush. He looked back up at Chris, who was grinning again.

"I know," he muttered. "It's just… frustrating I guess." Chris snorted.

"Frustrating? You have no idea. Why don't you get it through your thick skull that you want him? Why don't you fucking _act _on it? If you keep waiting around, it might be too late." All the old arguments against it flew at Roger even though Chris was starting to make a lot of sense.

"But I… I mean, you said… I don't even know if he's…" he stumbled over the words.

He couldn't believe he was getting this flustered. It wasn't like him. He could understand now why Mark liked Chris. He was one of those people you couldn't help but feel safe talking to. God knows Roger would have never let down his guard this far if it were otherwise.

"Don't know if he's what? Interested? Sweetie, I'll tell you right now that the only time I've ever seen him happy, I mean _really _happy, is when he's with you. There certainly wouldn't be an issue of biological inclination either. At the very _least _he's bi." Roger couldn't help but grin a little.

"Your all mighty gaydar inform you of that?" he asked sarcastically.

"My gaydar is never wrong. And don't try to change the subject." Roger swallowed nervously.

"The fact of the matter is, Roger," Chris started again after a second, "he needs you. I know he does. It may seem like he's fine, but he's good at keeping up a convincing facade. For all he cares about everyone else, he still doesn't want anyone to care about him. He won't let anyone in, really.

"It's kind of sad, but I think the main reason he doesn't want to show it is he doesn't want other people worrying. Doesn't wanna complicate their lives more, doesn't want anyone to see how broken he really is."

Chris locked eyes with him, and Roger could see the concern there, the fear, how much he truly cared for Mark. And how helpless he felt because he wasn't the one who could make it better.

"I know I said you've got nothing to be jealous of," Chris nearly whispered, "but if you wait too long, he might let something happen that he doesn't really want. I don't know how far he'd go in letting people use him if someone doesn't stop him.

"I try to help, but I can't protect him as much as I would like to. I care about him, Roger. At one point, I would have said I loved him. But I'm not the one he wants. And the main reason I stopped pursuing him is because of that.

"I'm not who he wants, but I know if I had pushed the issue, he would've let me."

* * *

_1 month, 2 weeks, 5 days earlier, 9 months after Mark's departure, 1 month before Roger's arrival: _

Christian knocked on Mark's door, waiting nervously for an answer. Mark had called in sick today, and that had never happened before in the nine months he'd known him. Something about his voice on the phone had been… off. Christian was worried, and had decided to come over as soon as he'd finished things up at the studio.

There was no answer, and Chris frowned. He knocked again, his heart in his throat, and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he heard the chain moving on the inside, and the door opened. Mark stood there looking more tired than Chris had ever remembered seeing him.

"Jesus, Mark, you look like shit. Did I wake you up?"

"No," Mark mumbled. "I was awake."

There was something so incredibly _dead_ about Mark's usually bright blue eyes. Christian heard warning bells go off in his head.

"Can I come in?" he asked gently. Mark nodded and stepped aside.

The first thing Chris noticed was that Mark's projector was set up. That was odd; the only time Chris had ever seen Mark's projector up was when he'd just finished his first documentary since being in LA and wanted Chris to take a look at it. It was off now.

"Were you watching something?" Chris asked, walking up to the projector curiously.

"Yeah," Mark muttered, sitting on the couch and slumping.

"What were you watching?" Chris asked. Mark looked up wearily.

"Just some old films I made… a long time ago."

Chris couldn't take it anymore. The way Mark was slumped on the couch, the weariness in his eyes, everything about it spoke of dejection. He needed to know what was going on or he couldn't help him.

"Mark, what's wrong?" he asked, moving to sit next to him on the couch.

"Nothing."

"Mark," Chris said sternly, putting a hand on his shoulder and feeling Mark shiver slightly.

"It's just… it's been two years today." Chris frowned.

"Since what?"

"…Collins…" Mark managed to choke out. Christian's eyes widened in understanding.

"Oh, Mark," he whispered sadly, pulling the filmmaker into a hug. "Why didn't you tell me? You shouldn't have been here alone all day if you're that upset."

"I'll be fine," Mark muttered, going boneless against his friend. "It's just, it's been two years, and it makes me remember… it makes me wonder how he's doing since I left. I miss him, Christian."

For some reason, Chris got the feeling that Mark wasn't talking about Collins anymore. Mark might just be babbling though. The dark rings under his eyes told that he probably hadn't gotten any sleep last night.

He pulled back, then looked down into his friend's blue eyes. His breath caught when he saw the tears pooling there. Christian couldn't stand it. He couldn't see Mark hurting so much. His need to make it better coupled with the deep burning desire he'd held for the filmmaker up until now forced him to lean forward and press lips to lips.

Mark stiffened slightly, and Christian rubbed soothing hands up and down his back, pressing their lips together more firmly, bringing one hand up to cup the side of Mark's face. He deepened the kiss a little, keeping it chaste, but moving his lips over Mark's, massaging lightly. He pulled back and placed a short kiss to a cheek, nose, both closed eyelids. Finally, he moved away again.

Mark opened his eyes slowly, and what Chris saw there nearly killed him. He'd only made it worse. Now, coupled with that deep sadness was a slight confusion, a tint of fear. He cursed under his breath and pulled Mark closer, wincing when the filmmaker stiffened again.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into his hair. "You didn't want that. I just wanted to make it better. Jesus, Mark, just hit me, push me away or something."

Mark was silent, and there was the sudden sickening realization that Mark wouldn't have pushed him away. That if it made Christian happy, Mark would have let him do what he wanted. Even if all it would accomplish would be to hurt Mark more. Chris pulled back, gripping Mark's arms firmly but not enough to hurt. He stared into those blue eyes.

"I would never do anything if you didn't want it, Mark," he stated truthfully, his own eyes starting to burn a little. "You're my best friend. I'm sorry. I went too far. You have to understand, it just, it _hurts_. I can't stand to see you sad. Even if it's just as a friend, let me help?"

He could see that Mark believed him in the relief that washed over his face. Chris pulled him into a hug again, making sure it was loose enough that Mark wouldn't feel like he was going to try anything. He rubbed up and down his back lightly again.

"I'm sorry, Mark," he said again, and he really was, and not just for the kiss. "You don't have to do this by yourself. You're not alone. I swear you're not alone."

Oddly, that phrase only seemed to set Mark off worse, and Chris could only hold him helplessly as he sobbed into his chest.

* * *

_Back in the club: _

Roger watched as Christian lapsed into silence. After a minute, he saw him look over his shoulder to where Mark was talking at the bar.

"Finally freed himself from their hooks," Christian said approvingly. Roger glanced over to see Mark walking back toward the table.

"Remember what I said, Roger," Christian told him before Mark got there. "He needs you."

Roger couldn't answer, because Mark had reached the table, handing them both a fresh drink and sitting down. At the silence he glanced at both of them.

"Ooookay," he drawled. "I'm sensing some heavy shit. What the hell were you two talking about?"

"Just pointing out some inconsequential things to your rather dense comrade. Nothing to be worried about," Chris stated with a grin.

"Yeah, right," Mark muttered giving them both another nervous glance.

"Seriously, Marky, don't worry about it," Roger said, patting him on the shoulder. He glanced back up at Chris. "After all, I think he might have been right about a couple things for once."

"I'm _always_ right!" Chris snorted. Mark laughed.

"Well, glad to see your ego hasn't been affected," Roger muttered.

"Bring it, hair-boy," Chris said with a smile.

"You're calling _me _hair-boy?"

"I think we should start designating numbers," Mark said with a grin. "Hair-boys one and two."

"Hey!" both Chris and Roger protested in unison. Chris tapped his chin thoughtfully while Mark laughed.

"Well, as long as I get to be number one, I think this could work out," he said after a minute.

"Whatever," Roger grumbled.

Mark smiled and squeezed Roger's hand briefly under the table. He immediately realized what he'd done and looked away, a somewhat frightened look flashing over his face. If the butterflies in Roger's stomach were any indication, he was feeling the same way.

Shit. Seems like they both had some thinking to do.


	10. Chapter 10

OMGWTFBBQHOTTNESS! Okay... this is the moment you've all been waiting for. Unfortunately, because does not allow NC-17 material, I had to make some cuts. Don't worry, though. The link to the FULL and UNEDITED chapter is in my profile... or later on in the chapter where I made the cut, if you want to just read most of it here.

Anyways, here's Chapter TEEEEN!

_

* * *

2 hours later: _

Roger squinted past the bright lights pulsing from the dance floor. He wasn't sure if it was the strobe affect or the five plus drinks he'd consumed in the last two hours, but his vision swam slightly as he looked. He could just make out Mark, and he smiled slightly.

After twenty minutes of listening to Chris whine, Mark had finally agreed to go to the dance floor with him.

"_Not _to dance _with _you," he'd hastened to make very clear, somehow staying immune to the puppy eyes that Chris shot at him. Roger had flat out refused to join them, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the view.

If Roger was the giggling type, then the short laugh he let out into his drink could be described as such. Mark danced like a white boy. Which, technically, he _was_, but for some reason Mark's dance moves were a lot cuter, more endearing, than your average white-boy dance moves. Or maybe that was the alcohol talking.

Roger wasn't quite drunk yet, per se, but he was getting there. He certainly felt a lot calmer than he had earlier, and the warm haze that blanketed the room was agreeing with him nicely. He finished his drink and sighed. He should probably stop now. He didn't want to have a hangover in the morning.

He was just tipsy enough that he felt slightly groggy; like he'd been up all night working on the band's next song. Without the strong desire to find the nearest bed and pass out. The thought of a bed made quite different images pop up in his mind, actually. With a start, he realized that he'd put himself in a possibly dangerous situation.

Drunk enough to lose most of his inhibitions, but still sober enough to know what he was doing. He frowned. Maybe he should avoid Mark for a while. At least until he was sure he wasn't going to pin him against a wall. A shiver that wasn't wholly unpleasant raced down his spine.

He got up and started walking in the direction he'd last seen Blake. Maybe by seeing what he was up to, he could get his mind off Mark.

He wasn't sure if it would be an entirely welcome diversion.

* * *

Chris watched Roger out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't sure if Mark noticed it (probably not) but the guitarist was staring in their direction, those intense green orbs locked on Mark. It was a little disconcerting, but not altogether bad. He did a mental count of Roger's alcohol intake by the empty glasses on the table. Perfect. Just enough to hopefully loosen him up some, but not enough so that he'd do anything really stupid. That probably explained the intent stare. 

Roger got up from the table and walked toward the dance floor. For a moment, Chris thought he was headed towards them, but then he veered off. Probably going to find Blake. Chris shook his head with a smile. Idiot.

Actually, come to think of it, this might work out for the best. Chris had been meaning to talk to Mark about the incident by the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted over the loud music, cutting Mark off mid-dance. Chris smiled again. He really needed to teach the poor kid the finer aspects of rhythm.

"What?" Mark shouted back.

"Let's go over there, okay?" He pointed to a semi-secluded seating area close to the bar, away from the dance floor and the tables. "I wanna ask you something!"

He saw the look of slight panic cross over Mark's face. Good. At least he knew what this was about. Just to be certain the filmmaker wouldn't run off, he grabbed onto a wrist, leading him to the place he mentioned earlier.

After making sure Mark wasn't going anywhere, he went and got them a couple fresh drinks. He knew that Mark had to be a little tipsy himself. Otherwise, he'd never have finally agreed to dance with Chris for a while. Keeping in mind that Mark probably had a lower tolerance, he guessed that another drink or so and the filmmaker would most likely be at the same level as Roger. Couldn't hurt if Chris wanted information out of him.

Chris had only seen Mark drunk twice in the time he'd known him. Usually, the filmmaker knew when to cut himself off. He always seemed to only allow himself to get a little bit of a buzz before he stopped. Strangely, unlike most people, when Mark drank, he talked a lot more, and more articulately at that. Chris was never able to gauge how drunk he was by any sort of slur.

"So… what's up?" Mark asked, giving away his nervousness about the impending conversation by downing his drink in one gulp.

"I think you know," Chris said. "What was that whole thing at the bar?" Mark stared at his feet, looking sheepish and reluctant.

"I'm… not sure," he said quietly. Chris had to strain to hear him.

"Really? 'Cause if I didn't know better, I'd say you were just about to kiss the guy." Mark was silent for a long moment.

"Mmm… I think… I was," he admitted. Chris pounced on it.

"Well, Jesus! Why _didn't_ you?"

"Bar tender came up. Kinda ruined the moment."

"Well, go find him and work up to it again! You guys have been undressing each other with your eyes all night. It can't be _that_ hard." All of the sudden, Mark looked very tired. He sank down into a seat.

"That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered. Chris sat down next to him.

"What do you mean?" Mark stared off into space for a while, then turned to look at his friend.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," he stated, seemingly off-topic, "and I've come to realize a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like how I feel about Roger. And a lot of the reasoning behind why I left."

"And… verdict?"

"I'm in love with him," Mark whispered so quietly that Chris almost thought he'd imagined it. "I have been for a long time. Jesus, Christian, I was so fucking _blind_. To a certain extent, I think I still am."

Chris clamped down sharply on the rising emotions of jealousy and betrayal.

_You knew this was coming,_ he told himself. _Don't act all surprised now. _

The problem was, it was one thing to _know_ something was going to happen, and another thing when it actually _did_ happen. It surprised Chris that it stung as much as it did, but it wasn't too bad. He could deal with it. Over time, he was sure he'd get over it completely. He forced a smile.

"Well, God, Mark! If you're in love with him, that's great! What's the problem?"  
"A lot of things," Mark said, looking up to meet Chris' gaze. "Not sure I really deserve him for one." He held up a hand to stop Chris from launching into an indignant denial. "The biggest reason though?" Chris shut up, and waited for Mark to continue. He was alarmed when the filmmaker let out a self-depreciating laugh. "I'm terrified."

Chris knew better than to ask, 'Of what?' It was clear from the look Mark gave him, from the way he slouched in his chair, the way he acted whenever Roger was around. And Chris already knew that Mark had never really let anyone in since moving to LA. He didn't know how long the filmmaker had kept himself closed off, but opening up again after any length of time was a frightening ordeal. He could understand that.

"So trust him," Chris said. "Getting into any relationship is a leap of faith, Mark. Do you love him enough to risk it?"

"That's the thing. I love him too _much_ to risk it."

Chris tried to come up with something to say to that, but he ended up just giving Mark a very confused look. Mark sighed and went on.

"Roger's been through so much, Christian. The most difficult thing, I think, was April's suicide and dealing with the fact that he's lost over half his life as a result of an addiction he lived for. He has HIV. And I'm not saying I'm afraid of catching it. Hell, at this point, I've lost almost everyone I cared about to it. It might make it easier on me to be able to follow them, twisted as that is. I'm not saying that I can't love him because of it, either. If anything, I love him more because he's managed to deal with that and get through it; to make the most of the time he has left.

"But sooner or later, I'm going to lose him. I have to face that fact. If I take that final step, if I allow myself to really love him… what'll I do when he's gone?"

Mark was staring at his knees, but Chris watched silently as a couple of drops landed on the leather of his pants. Mark leaned back and pulled his glasses off, brushing at his eyes furiously. Chris could almost hear his heart breaking for his friend.

"I'll tell you what you'll do," Chris said after a few minutes. "You'll hurt like hell. You know what losing someone close to you is like, probably better than I do. I don't need to tell you that.

"But I _am_ telling you, Mark, if you think it'll hurt any less just because you never allowed yourself to be with him, you're being a lot stupider than I know you are." He reached over and grabbed Mark's shoulder, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"If you never tell him how you feel, you're going to regret it for the rest of your life. So you've got a limited amount of time with him. Shouldn't you stop wasting it?"

He could see that he'd gotten through to him. Mark had known that all along, probably. He'd just needed to hear someone else say it.

"I can't promise you things will go well," Chris said, taking his hand back and swirling his half-finished drink. "But I can promise you that no matter what, I'll be here. Regardless of the decision you make. I just want you to be happy." He looked up and smiled. "And you know how often I show concern for something that doesn't directly have to do with myself. I'd say that this is pretty damn-near close to miraculous." Mark laughed, albeit there were still some tears shining in his eyes.

"Christian," he said, "I think you've got yourself a deal."

Chris took Mark's offered hand, shaking strongly. He grinned.

_Go get him, Marky.

* * *

_

_20 minutes later: _

Roger groaned in frustration. This was his third time around the club, and he still hadn't managed to find Blake yet. It didn't help that the music was starting to give him a headache. At the first onset of pain behind his eyes, he'd cut himself off from all drinks. It wasn't helping.

Now it was all he could do to keep from running into Mark and Christian as he walked around again. It wasn't that he was _avoiding_ Mark… okay, so maybe he was. It was the filmmaker's own damn fault, anyway. He had no right to make Roger feel hot, cold, nervous and calm all at once. Even from across the room he was having an effect on the guitarist. He definitely needed to sober up, and quick.

He walked to the bar and asked for a glass of club soda. He took a few large gulps when it was given to him, wincing a little as the carbonation threatened to go up his nose. He was about to continue his search when he felt a warm weight settle on his shoulder, leaning into his side. He turned, nearly bumping noses with a positively shit-faced Blake.

"Rooooger!" Blake slurred, leaning into him farther. "I thought this'd be where you at. Where ya been all night, huh?"

"Uh… I've been looking for you actually," he explained, moving away from the bar and propping Blake up better. "How's the hunt going?" he couldn't resist asking with a smirk.

"Jeeeezuus! These bitches is all over the place! Man! I dunno when they come or go, but they're here, a'ight!"

"Um… okay."

"I gots one over there… see her?" Blake gestured wildly in the direction of the dance floor, where an equally inebriated woman was leaning against her own friend. She waved droopily when she saw Blake pointing.

"Right. Blake, how many have you had?"

"At least two hundred in the past month!" he exclaimed, pushing away from Roger's support a little.

"Not girls, Blake," Roger sighed. "Drinks."

"You meanin' tonight? Maybe… tenty twelve? Six?"

"Okay. We'll take that as 'enough'."

Blake stumbled some more, leaned against the wall for a moment, grinned, and then promptly pitched towards the floor. Roger moved to grab him, but Christian beat him to it. He held the bass guitarist up easily. For a moment, Roger thought that Chris must be stronger than he looked to be able to do that, but the thought dissolved quickly. Where the hell had Christian come from? He hadn't even noticed him.

"Bloody hell," Chris muttered, moving Blake's weight to be supported partially by the wall. "You know you're raving drunk when you can smell the alcohol on your breath from clear across the bar."

"Chrish?" Blake asked, his face muffled because he was leaning into his friend's chest. "How'd you get to be the floor, man?" He then dissolved into a fit of giggles. Chris' eyebrow twitched.

"I could see that your drunken ass was a little too much to handle for Roger. No doubt he's well on his way to being as drunk as you are. How in the hell did I end up being the only person mostly sober here?" he moaned, then glared when Blake just giggled again.

Well, this was all good and fascinating, but Roger realized belatedly that it was only a matter of time before Mark showed up now, and he really wasn't in any condition to be interacting with him… He turned to retreat, and ran smack into the filmmaker. Typical. Could this night get any more screwed than it already was?

_Whoa,_ Roger thought as he felt Mark's warmth even through his clothes. _Hold up. Don't answer that, brain. _

Mark moved away, and Roger could breathe again.

"Hey," Mark said. "What's going on?"

"Blake's drunk off his ass," Roger explained, turning back to watch as Chris tried to do the damage control.

"Well, obviously," Mark muttered when he saw the two. "Shouldn't someone take him home?"

"On it!" Chris exclaimed in answer to Mark's question, throwing an arm around Blake's waist to help him walk. "Blake, where're your keys?" He started rooting into Blake's pockets.

Roger was about to make a sarcastic comment, but held himself back. He didn't want to get stuck taking care of Blake. Christian didn't look too happy about it either. Blake just giggled some more.

"Tickles…" he muttered.

"You aren't helping," Chris groaned. He rooted some more, checking all the bass guitarist's pockets, then sighed exasperatedly.

"I can't find the damn things!" he mumbled. "Well, I guess I can put you up in my apartment for now… or something. Anywhere that isn't public. You need sleep."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead!" Blake cheered, his head rolling back for a moment before he righted himself.

"Jesus," Roger said. "He's really out of it. Here, Chris." He dug out his own keys handed them over. "Take him to my place. It's at least four blocks closer. And it's on the first floor. I don't think you can navigate stairs or elevators with him right now." Chris glared.

"Then why don't _you _take him?" he asked. "Contrary to popular belief, taking care of inebriated young men is not a favorite pastime of mine… well, at least when they're too drunk to be of any use to me." Mark laughed.

"I've taken care of the drunk son of a bitch more times than I can count," Roger explained with a grin. "It's someone else's turn."

"Fine," Chris growled. "Wait. Where the hell are you gonna sleep, then? Not that I really care, you traitor."

"You can come back to my place if you want," Mark piped in.

Roger's eyes widened slightly. Fuck. What the hell had he gotten himself into? He looked over to Mark, those blue eyes sucking him in, the small smile making his stomach do some interesting things that he was sure had nothing to do with the alcohol. He answered the only way he was able to.

"Sure."

* * *

_Half an hour later: _

Mark threw his keys on the coffee table, painfully aware of Roger's presence right behind him as he followed Mark into the apartment. Roger took off his leather jacket and put it on an empty chair. Mark walked to the kitchen and grabbed a couple glasses.

"Want some water?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. He could _feel_ Roger looking at him, and it wasn't helping his already frazzled nerves.

_Shit shit shitshitshit. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. _

Well, it was too late to worry about it now, the more logical part of his brain argued.

"Please," Roger answered. "Seeing Blake made me realize that I _really_ don't want a hangover tomorrow." Mark smiled and handed him the drink.

"He did kinda overdo it, didn't he?" Mark mused. "I hope Chris doesn't kill him. He doesn't do well with the whole 'nurturing' thing." Roger snorted.

"It'll be good for him. Maybe he'll finally develop some people skills."

"He can actually be pretty charming when he wants to. Most of the time, he just doesn't want to."

"How come he gets away with being an asshole, but I can't?" Mark laughed.

"Somehow, I remember you getting away with it for an extended period of time."

"Okay, okay. I don't think that really counts, though," Roger conceded with a smile, then downed the rest of his water.

He handed the glass to Mark, and their fingers brushed. He cursed inwardly when even that small touch made his heart beat a little faster. This was really getting out of hand. He saw Mark's brow knit into a frown.

Mark turned and set the glasses on the counter. Roger was so close in the small kitchen it was driving him nuts. The tension was palpable in the air. That little brush of hands was the last straw. Maybe it was just liquid courage coursing through his veins, but he decided to do something about it. Chris was right.

"We need to talk," he sighed, moving into the living room. Roger cocked an eyebrow, following him.

"'Bout what?" he asked, nearly running into the filmmaker's back when Mark stopped suddenly.

Then he could hear his heart thundering in his ears as Mark turned and wrapped his arms around Roger's waist. The silk of Mark's shirt was smooth against his skin as he automatically reached around Mark's back to return the hug. Mark rested his chin on Roger's shoulder, leaning farther into him with a shuddery sigh. Roger realized that he was trembling slightly too. Behind all the expletives running through his mind was a warm feeling of safety, of rightness in having Mark in his arms like this.

"This," Mark whispered into his hair. "Please tell me I'm not the only one who feels that." Roger's grip tightened slightly and he swallowed.

"You're… not the only one," he said haltingly. Jesus, Mark felt the same way? Well, to be honest it wasn't like he hadn't seen it coming, but still. Mark leaned into him even more. Roger sighed. That was nice. He started running his hands up and down Mark's back.

"Thank God," Mark breathed. "Otherwise I think I would be dying of embarrassment right now." Roger let out a strangled laugh.

"You'd probably be the only person who could actually follow through on that figure of speech."

Mark turned his head and buried his face in Roger's hair, nuzzling at his temple slightly. Roger really didn't want to deal with the bolt of arousal that sent through him right now. He raked his nails lightly up Mark's back, thrilling at the shudder that shook his friend's smaller frame. He turned his own head so that he and Mark were cheek to cheek.

He stopped the doubts running through his head, and just allowed himself to feel for a few moments. The heat pouring from Mark's body, flush against his, Mark's hands stroking the small of his back through the tight t-shirt, the smooth, flushed cheek against his own rough one. It was all too much, not enough, and Roger knew that he never wanted to let go. How had he ever lived without Mark for so long?

Mark tensed a little, and Roger realized belatedly that he'd voiced that last thought aloud. Mark pulled back and looked at him, blue meeting green. Something inside Roger broke. He gave a slightly sad smile.

"This probably isn't the best time to ask this," Roger said quietly, one hand raising of its own accord to rest on Mark's cheek, "but I have to know if this is gonna go any further. Why did you leave?"

Mark leaned into Roger's palm, his eyes closing as he braced himself slightly. It was frightening, being able to see how they were moving across that invisible line, their past friendship and intimacy changing into something different, something more. Roger deserved to know, didn't he? Mark had done a lot of thinking lately. He_ had_ told Roger he would tell him when he'd figured it out.

He pulled back a little so their bodies weren't flush against one another, but still kept his arms around the guitarist. It wasn't helping his thought process to have Roger so close, but he couldn't force himself to pull away completely. The contact was comforting, and Mark needed that if he was going to tell the truth.

"A lot of reasons," Mark started slowly, his eyes still closed. "Some of it was that I was just… tired, Rog. I missed everyone. Part of me didn't want to admit that they were really gone. Maybe by leaving I could make myself believe that they were all fine, just living somewhere else, as illogical as that is.

"Part of me was tired of hiding. You were right, Rog. I had been using my work as a way to… detach. I used it to hide from a lot of things. I didn't want to do that anymore."

He paused, and was very glad when Roger didn't interrupt him. He needed to get this out all in one shot. If Roger spoke up now, he didn't know if he could do it.

"Before Collins died," Mark said after a moment, "I made him a promise. He told me he never wanted me to give up, to stop caring. I guess another part of it was that I felt like I couldn't do that in New York. There was too much… pain there, I guess. Too many old scars."

He breathed in deeply, shivering again. He opened his eyes looking searchingly at Roger's face. He raised a slightly shaky hand, resting it near the nape of Roger's neck, his thumb running over stubble on the guitarist's jaw.

"If I'm being completely honest, though, I was running away. I told myself different, but that's what I was really doing. I… I was scared, Roger. I never imagined you'd ever feel the same way I did. I didn't want to screw up what we had. You could break me so easily, Rog. If you ever told me to get lost, or were disgusted by me… I can't even imagine what that would do to me.

"Part of me could see this coming, even then, and I didn't know if it was the right thing, if I could handle it, if _you _could handle it. We'd already lost Angel, Mimi and Collins. Even if we stay just friends, I don't think I'll ever be able to handle losing you. How would I deal with it if we were more? So I acted out the old standard stupidity. Leave before you get left.

"I know it's idiotic and selfish, but I don't want to be the one to keep going when all my friends are gone. I'm not… not strong enough for that."

He realized that there were tears running down his face, his voice becoming more and more choked. Roger's eyes were shining with his own unshed tears. That face he could see even with his eyes closed, those deep green eyes that still had the ability to take his breath away were staring concerned, even lovingly into his.

"It's killing me, Roger," he whispered, eyes closing again.

Roger had listened to Mark silently, his insides twisting at every new revelation. He hated seeing Mark this way. It hurt to see that defeated look on the filmmaker's face, the tears escaping his closed eyes. When Mark finished, he finally gave into his instincts, pulling him into a tighter embrace.

"I'm so sorry, Mark," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't see what you were going through. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. I'm just… I'm sorry."

What he couldn't voice was how very sorry he was to be the cause of a lot of Mark's troubles. No matter how much he wished to stay, he knew that inevitably he'd leave, that Mark would be left alone with nothing but a gravestone and a used guitar as reminders. He'd never regretted his lifestyle with April as much as he did now. Because he wasn't really regretting it for himself, he was regretting it for Mark.

_Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. _

Even the old motto felt empty in his mind at this point. How could he not regret something that was hurting his best friend, the man he _loved_, so badly? How could he even begin to make this any better?

He pulled back from the tight embrace just slightly, looking into the face that, for all the trials endured, still looked so young, so achingly innocent. He cupped either side of Mark's face and brushed at the tears with his thumbs. He felt almost frantic, wanting so badly to make it better, but at a loss as to _how_.

"Don't cry, Mark," he choked out after a moment, surprised to find that tears of frustration and shared grief were starting to leak from his own eyes. "Please, don't cry. Please."

Hardly thinking about it, he leaned down slightly, pressing his lips to Mark's forehead, his closed eyes, his cheeks, noticing slowly that Mark had stilled completely and his eyes were opening again. Roger stared into deep blue, the color darkened in sadness, and finally brought his lips to meet Mark's, his eyes sliding shut.

Mark followed suit, his breath catching slightly. This was nothing like the first kisses described in so many romance novels. There were no fireworks, no ringing bells. Just warmth, connection, and Roger. But somehow, it felt sweeter, truer, than anything a romance novelist could describe.

Roger felt his chest swelling with all the pent up emotions. He wanted more. He _needed _to show Mark, he was alive, he was here, he was _now. _He needed to stop the tears flowing down the man's face. He shifted, bringing Mark closer, wrapping his arms around him more tightly, moving his lips over the filmmaker's. He licked at his lips while still pressing them to Mark's, his tongue pulling back with a faint taste of him. With a shock, Roger realized he wanted to taste all of him.

Mark immediately opened his mouth to Roger's moving tongue, surprising himself at his lack of hesitance. He pushed all his thoughts away, focusing on feel. He felt Roger pressed up against him, their bodies flush against each other. He buried his fingers in Roger's hair, pulling his head closer almost viciously, his hips bucking forward of their own accord. And then, _then_ he felt their pelvises brush together, could feel that Roger was being affected the same way he was, and with a whimper that he wasn't even aware came out of his mouth, he was lost.

Roger took the invitation, plunging his tongue into Mark's mouth. The taste; vanilla and something that made him think of autumn, underneath the tang of alcohol, made warmth explode deep in his stomach. He traced his tongue feverishly over teeth, the top of his mouth, trying to remember it all, to map it out in his mind. It didn't help when Mark's warm, slick tongue began brushing over his own, or when Mark used it to pull his tongue farther in and _sucked, _at the same moment that he ground their hips together sharply. He felt the tension building along with the heat in his stomach. He ravaged Mark's mouth for a few more long moments, then pulled back just barely with a gasp, their noses brushing.

"Mark," he breathed out, unable to form any other coherent thought.

He leaned down, latching onto Mark's slender neck and sucking sharply as he moved their hips together again, starting to pick up a rhythm. He could feel himself hardening, the friction just enough to drive him crazy but keep him sane at the same time. It didn't make sense, but it felt so _right_ that Roger didn't want to question it. He pumped their hips together more strongly, feeling Mark's answering desire, his hips pushing back into Roger's. Roger nearly let out a whimper of his own at some of the breathy noises Mark was starting to make.

The sensations were building, piling on top of one another, and Mark couldn't decide what he liked better; Roger's hot tongue against his pulse point, the occasional nip of teeth, or the teasing brush of their hips against each other. He wanted to scream at the exquisite pressure starting to build. He never realized he could need something so badly.

"Roger. Oh, God," he tried to slow them down a little, pulling his hips away slightly, or he was going to come right there. "Bedroom." He felt the shudder go through Roger at that one word, and the implications of it crashed down on him. Christ, this was really happening, wasn't it?

"Yeah, good idea," Roger muttered shakily, his lips leaving Mark's neck only to attack Mark's lips again.

It was sharp and fast, the clash of teeth and tongues, until he pulled away. Mark's eyes stayed closed after the kiss, his face flushed, and Roger had to fight himself to not simply pin him to the floor where they stood. With an amount of self-control he didn't know he had left, he pulled back enough to lead the filmmaker into the bedroom, their hands entwined. Roger realized he was dragging him more than leading him, but that was just a technicality. As soon as they got in the door, he closed it, slamming Mark up against it and biting at his neck again, rubbing their hips together, his knees starting to buckle.

Mark wasn't sure how it happened, but after a few moments against the door they stumbled over to the bed, Roger's mouth still attached to his neck, Mark's hands kneading at Roger's ass through tight denim. Roger fell on top of him, their hips still pistoning together. They were both shaking.

Mark pulled Roger's head up from his neck and kissed him again, trying to tell him without words what he wanted, what he needed. It was happening too fast but not fast enough at the same time. Mark wondered when his head would stop spinning, and if he really wanted it to. He dragged his fingers up Roger's back, nails scratching harshly. Roger let out a pleased hiss.

Mark felt warm, nimble hands working at his shirt, unbuttoning until it was all the way open. Mark was breathing in harshly, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes tightly when he felt Roger lean back, giving him room to sit up and pull it off all the way. He did so quickly, opening his eyes to watch as Roger pulled off his own tight shirt. He bit back a whimper at the sight of the rock star's exposed torso. It wasn't like he'd never seen Roger without a shirt on before, but this situation was entirely new. And Roger was _gorgeous_.

Roger was having similar thoughts about his slender ex-roommate. He laid a hand gently against the middle of Mark's collarbone, pushing back lightly until they lay chest to chest. He let out a soft moan at the incredible feeling of skin against skin, stroking his hands up and down Mark's arms. They were both gasping, sweat starting to bead, but Roger couldn't care less.

"Is this okay?" he asked softly, placing a few open-mouthed kisses around Mark's collarbone, sucking on his neck briefly.

"_Fuck_," Mark groaned when Roger traced the pads of calloused fingers teasingly around his nipples. "If you don't… start moving faster I think I'm gonna kill you." Roger chuckled deep in his chest and it was all Mark could stand.

* * *

AN: Okay, so this is where I had to cut it... Stinks, I know. There's a link in my profile, but here's the address for now if you are too lazy to go to my profile: 

http/ community. rentfic /326015 .html? #cutid1

Just take out the spaces... obviously. If you don't care about the smut, then just ignore this whole thing... yeah.

* * *

He pulled Mark into his arms, snuggling down and resting his head on his friend's smaller chest, sighing in contentment when Mark wrapped his arms tightly around him, then kissed the top of his head sleepily. 

"'Night," Mark mumbled through a yawn, promptly drifting off to sleep.

"'Night," Roger whispered after a few minutes, lulled into sleep himself by the steady beating of Mark's heart.


	11. Chapter 11

Okay. So I'm not dead. I just got to the smut and was like, "WAAAAH! DONE!" even though I knew I wasn't. There's gonna be at least three more chapters after this, and then I'm planning on doing a series of one-shots and songfics set in the same universe. Maybe a couple little backstories on Blake and Christian, just cuz I love them so much. Any other suggestions? Let me know what you want, people!

And, on to CHAPTER 11! WOOT!

_

* * *

The next morning: _

In the bleary fog between waking and sleeping, Roger realized that he was warm. He shifted subtly, and his arm tightened around the source of heat next to him. He let out a sigh, and hazily wondered what the wonderful warmth next to him was. He leaned closer to it, his head resting on a yielding plane. He picked up the faint thumping of a heart beat. The last time he'd woken up like this…

_Mimi. _

Roger's eyes snapped open, the obscure thought jolting him awake. He was snuggled up to a naked body, his head on a chest, moving up and down with slow breaths. He looked up and took in Mark's gentle face, relaxed in sleep. His hand snaked out from around the filmmaker's waist, moving up to tentatively touch a smooth cheek. Mark's eyelashes fluttered, but he didn't wake. Oh God, _Mark. _

The previous night came crashing in on him with startling clarity. He nearly gasped at the abruptness of the memories all bustling to the front of his mind. Mark and he, they'd… _shit_… Past the images of last night, Roger could see his hand on Mark's face, and the golden band that still clung snugly to his ring finger. Some wholly different memories closed in on Roger then, and he felt a phantom weight on his chest.

Carefully, so as not to wake his friend, he untangled himself. He stood, his head spinning, panic burning like acid in his stomach. The simple gold band felt like an icy weight on his left hand. He found his clothes, wincing at the evidence of last night's activities that still clung to them, putting them on anyway. He padded to the living room, closing the bedroom door behind him, resolutely not looking at the sleeping filmmaker still in bed.

Shrugging on his leather jacket, he scratched at the semen on his jeans with a thumbnail. When he was sure nothing looked too obvious, he walked over to the apartment door, opening it silently. The emotions swirling in his mind and gut were overwhelming. He swallowed around the dry lump in his throat.

Then Roger did the one thing he did better than writing songs or playing his guitar.

He ran.

_

* * *

One hour later: _

Mark groaned then yawned as he stretched, his eyes squinting open slowly. They shut again as light assaulted them. It must be close to noon. He still felt exhausted.

_There's a damn good reason for that, _his mind supplied, and he smiled sleepily, still not quite awake.

Then he realized that he was laying spread-eagle on the bed, and the blankets were tossed off. The bed was cold. His arms were empty. Roger was gone.

He woke up completely at that realization. He cut off the fear starting to surge up with a stern mental reprimand, keeping his eyes clenched shut until he'd calmed down.

_Okay. That doesn't mean anything. Stop being so paranoid. He probably just went to the bathroom or something. _

He forced himself to wait. It was hard not to jump to conclusions after a lifetime of indoctrinated worrying, after years spent closing himself off because of the very real fear that the minute he opened up he'd just be hurt. He managed as well as he could, even falling into a light doze. The dread began to creep up on him as the minutes ticked by.

After half an hour, Mark was fairly certain Roger wasn't coming back.

He got up then, in a daze, noting almost immediately that the rocker's clothes were missing from the pile of his own garments tossed haphazardly on the floor. After pulling on his pair of boxers left from last night, he performed a half-hearted search of his apartment, looking for Roger who he knew wasn't there, a note he knew hadn't been left. Any sort of sign that the guitarist had been there at all, when he knew that the place was completely and utterly empty.

He shuffled into the bathroom. The minute he saw his blank face in the mirror, the numbness of shock that had mercifully enveloped him wore off. Roger was really _gone. _He slid down the wall, grabbing his bare knees, a sob catching in his throat. The cold linoleum bit into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the iciness that was running through his veins. He started gasping. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He wished with all his being that he couldn't feel.

He'd been stripped, laid completely bare, and now all that was left were the raw nerves. He didn't know where the pain stopped and he began. Maybe pain was all that was left of him now. Silent tears were running down his face, his bad vision blurred even more. He didn't even have the strength to yell, to sob. All he knew was the ache in his chest, the weight in his gut. The disgusting feeling of panic, his worst fears being realized, and the helplessness coming with the knowledge that he could do absolutely nothing about it.

He didn't know how long he sat there, mostly naked and freezing on his bathroom floor. The passage of time seemed so irrelevant. Each second felt like an eternity. He finally stood, staggering to his bedroom, stumbling into a t-shirt and jeans. The shadows cast by the light from the window had lengthened. He didn't even care how many hours it had been.

He sat at his kitchen table for lack of anything better to do, and stared at the grain of the wood. He studied the lines, trying his best to detach, to distance himself. He'd been so good at it before. He wondered why the hell it was so hard now, even though, deep down, he knew why.

Mark may have been naïve, but he knew with a certainty that made his stomach clench what this meant.

_It means that it's the end, and I'm alone. _

_

* * *

Thirty minutes earlier: _

Roger's shoulders slumped in on him as he trudged past a few shop-fronts. He made his way to the nearest park, knowing he needed to get somewhere outside of the bustle of the city so he could just _think_. He'd planned on going to his apartment, but then remembered that Blake and Christian were probably still there, and he couldn't bring himself to face either of them right now.

He breathed in the rare scent of living greenery as he stepped into the park. He'd hoped it would have a calming effect on him. It didn't. What the hell was wrong with him anyway?

He slumped onto a bench, the metal jabbing into his shoulders. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. Slowly, he picked apart his feelings, trying to see past the panic that was clouding everything.

_Breathe, Roger. Breathe. _

It had all happened so fast. It was like the most natural thing in the world, the most logical step to make. At the time. But Roger had been drunk. Just enough to lower the caution he'd built around himself. He _had_ known what he was doing, though, so he couldn't blame it on the alcohol. That would only be a cop-out, a way to avoid dealing with all the emotions roiling through him now.

Okay, so he was panicking, but _why _was he panicking? Fear was a big part of it. Fear that he'd hurt Mark, that Mark would hurt him. That was normal. But this fear went deeper than that. Obviously, he had no problems with being physical with Mark. Hell, he'd loved every God damn second of it. He knew if they got together there'd be a lot of sex involved. Last night was just a taste of the electricity that sparked between them. And sure they could be careful. But was that good enough?

Since he'd found out he was positive, Roger had never been with someone who wasn't. He didn't know if he'd be willing to take that chance. He knew he'd never be able to deal with it if he got Mark sick, too. Just the thought of it made him shiver. It would cause him to lose any grasp on sanity that he had left. Mark was too important. He couldn't risk it.

Mark wasn't just _important_, either. Sometimes Roger thought he was the only thing that really mattered anymore. His chest ached with what Mark was to him. He'd admitted that he was in love with his best friend, at least to himself. It still made his stomach clench at the thought of all the pain Mark had gone through when he hadn't been there.

That brought him to the guilt. The guilt of abandoning Mark when he'd needed Roger most, of not noticing that Mark had needed help. Fuck, he was abandoning Mark _now. _But he knew if he'd stayed he would've freaked out anyway, and Mark didn't need to see this. It was the truth, even if it didn't make him feel any better about it. He didn't deserve Mark anyway.

Mark was… he just _was._ Roger knew he wasn't perfect, but sometimes he couldn't help but have an idolized version of the filmmaker in his mind. Mark was the most genuine, most kind and caring person he'd ever met. He'd stood by Roger through the worst days of his life, barely ever lost his patience even though Roger knew he tested it often enough. And while Mark tended to hide in his work sometimes, become obsessed with his art, who could really blame him after what he'd gone through?

_I could, _Roger thought ruefully, remembering their fight after Angel's funeral.

Then there was another guilt Roger didn't want to admit. He felt like he'd betrayed Mimi somehow. Of course she'd been gone for years, but that didn't change how much he'd loved her. Was it cheapening Mimi's memory by loving Mark as much as he did? How could he love two different people as much as he'd loved Mimi, and now loved Mark? And the worst of it all, was Mark some sort of unconscious way for Roger to replace her? He couldn't do that to his friend if that was the case. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

Belatedly, he noticed that he'd been sitting on the bench thinking for over an hour. And he wasn't any closer to the answers he needed. Obviously, mulling this over himself wasn't going to work. He needed to figure it out fast. He couldn't leave Mark hanging like that, and he couldn't keep running away.

_Run away, hit the road, don't commit, you're full of shit!_

He'd learned his lesson the hard way before. Even if he was panicking, he couldn't afford to lose Mark. Fuck, the filmmaker had probably already woken up, found Roger gone, and jumped to all the wrong conclusions. Roger knew he should go back, call, do _something_, but the fear was still gripping him. He needed to talk, but he couldn't talk to Mark. He just wasn't ready yet.

Disgusted with himself, Roger got up and walked out of the park. He turned in the direction of his apartment on auto-pilot. Luckily, it was only a couple of blocks away from here.

He hoped Blake was still there.

_

* * *

Eight minutes later:_

Roger walked up to his door, fishing around in his pockets. He rolled his eyes at himself when he remembered that he'd given his keys to Chris last night. With a sigh, he knocked, feeling strange that he had to ask permission to get into his own place.

He waited for a few minutes, but no one answered. His brow furrowed, and he knocked again, louder this time. Jesus, wouldn't it just be _perfect_ if he had to hunt down Christian before he could get in? Maybe Blake had gone home already. But it was still early, and the bassist was probably still sleeping off his hangover…. Oh.

_Not the brightest crayon in the box today, are we?_ he thought, pounding on the door again without stopping.

His fist was starting to get sore when the door finally opened. Blake's dreds were more tangled than they usually were, a few of them covering his face. Bloodshot eyes peered out from behind them with bruised rings underneath. They stared at each other for a few moments.

"I hate you," Blake stated, his voice hoarse.

"It's your own fault. Let me in."

"And why the hell should I do that?"

"'Cuz it's _my _Goddamn apartment!" Roger almost shouted. Blake winced at the noise, then looked around.

"Well, damn. I guess it is. How in the fuck did I end up here?" he muttered, stepping aside.

Roger groaned as he walked in.

"You don't remember anything, do you?"

"Not a Goddamn thing. Wanna fill me in?" Blake asked. "No wait. Hold on. I'm gonna go blow chunks. Make me some coffee." With that statement, Blake attempted to run to the bathroom, but ended up stumbling more than running.

Roger went to the kitchen and poured out two mugs of coffee. Chris must have programmed the pot last night. He winced when he heard Blake heaving, and prayed he'd made it to the bathroom in time. He did _not _need to have puke stains on his carpet, on top of all his other problems.

He went back to the living room and sat on the couch, sipping at his mug. He set it on the coffee table, and his eyes were drawn to a piece of paper that he hadn't noticed before. His keys were resting on top of it. They fell to the table with a jingle when he lifted the note up.

_Roger-_

_It's six in the morning as I'm writing this, and I'm heading back to my place to get some well-deserved sleep. Drunk-ass passed out in your bed about two minutes after I got him in the door. Hopefully your sheets won't forever smell of vodka. _

_I was going to swing by Mark's and drop off your keys, but I thought better of it. If it went like I suspect it did last night, you probably wouldn't have wanted me intruding anyway. Good luck, and take care of him for me, okay?_

_See you later-_

_Chris_

Roger finished reading the note, crumpling it slightly as his hands clenched. Fuck. Chris had practically given his blessing. As if Roger didn't feel like enough of an asshole already. Maybe it would have been better if Chris had stopped by. Then Roger wouldn't have had the option of running.

Or maybe he would have anyway, and it would have just hurt Mark more.

With a moan, Roger buried his face in his hands. His right fist still had the note wrapped in it, and the paper scraped against his cheek. He couldn't believe himself. What the hell was wrong with him?

Blake staggered in then, flopping down on the couch next to Roger and grabbing the first mug he saw. It was the one Roger had been drinking out of, but Blake didn't seem to care. Roger stood.

"I'm gonna go shower and change. I'll be right back," he explained.

Blake grunted. Roger got the impression that he wasn't planning on moving anytime soon.

Roger took longer in the shower than he'd meant to. He kept getting distracted by the thoughts running rampant through his head. Mark's grin. Mark's laugh. Mark's moans and whimpers. Mark's lips against his… He snapped out of it when some shampoo ran into his eyes. He swore at the sting, then finished up quickly, rinsing, turning the water off and stepping out, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist.

No sooner had he secured the towel than Blake barged into the bathroom, a bundle of clothes in his arms. Roger stared at him, wide-eyed and dripping.

"Pants," Blake explained after they'd stared at each other for a while.

"Okay…?"

"I'm borrowing them. And a shirt. And your shower. Now get the hell out."

Roger couldn't think of anything to do but listen. He stepped out of the bathroom. He closed the door a little louder than was necessary, and Blake let out a string of curses as the noise aggravated his headache. Roger sighed and went to his room to get dressed.

Blake was weird when he was hung-over.

Half an hour later Blake emerged to find Roger sitting on the couch again, staring off into space. He sat down next to his friend. Roger jumped slightly, then turned to him.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Yo," Blake answered, raising an eyebrow.

"Feel any better?"

"I guess. Least I don't feel like I was raped by an elephant anymore." Roger let out a slight smile.

"I'll pass the compliment along to Chris." Blake blinked.

"Mind lettin' me know what the fuck happened last night? My memory is kinda… fuck, I just don't remember."

Roger smirked and filled Blake in on what had happened at the club, focusing mostly on what Blake had done after getting shit-faced. Blake seemed to be a lot more alert than he had been before the shower. Blake's eyes widened slightly when Roger got to where he'd told Chris to take Blake back to his place, and then gone home with Mark.

"Okay, man. So… now you mind tellin' me why the hell you look like someone shot your puppy?" Roger's brow furrowed. Damn, he must really be out of it if Blake noticed it even with a hang-over.

"Well… uh, that's something I wanted to talk to you about, actually," he muttered. Why was it so hard to start?

"So talk, man."

"It's kinda hard to… shit. Well, you know I went back to Mark's apartment last night."

"Yeah," Blake raised his eyebrows, prompting him to continue. Roger took a deep breath. The only way to say this was to just say it.

"I guess… one thing led to another and… I slept with him." Blake just blinked again. Roger had expected somewhat of a bigger reaction.

"Wait, okay," Blake's mouth seemed to have caught up with his brain. "So you had sex with Mark?"

"…Yeah."

"I mean, first time?"

"To what, have sex?" Roger grimaced. "Blake, what kind of fucking idiot are you?"

"No, no, man. First time with _Mark_?"

"Oh. Yeah, first time with Mark." What the hell was Blake trying to say?

"Well, shit." Blake looked more surprised now than he had at the news that Roger had slept with Mark.

"What the hell is _that _supposed to mean?" Roger asked.

"Shit… I mean, _fuck, _Roger. I thought you guys were screwing like rabbits ever since we found out he was here." Roger's eyes bugged out of his head.

"What!"

"Just what I said, man. I mean, hell, with the way you were freaking out when he left, and then how Goddamn _happy _you've been since he showed up again… shit, the way you look at him is a dead giveaway, man. I haven't seen you look at anyone like that since Mimi." Roger groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"I'm such a Goddamn idiot," he mumbled. Why had it been so easy for everyone to see but him? Blake patted him consolingly on the shoulder.

"Okay, so you had sex with Mark. What's the prob, bro?" Roger snapped upright again.

"I don't know… I just…. I panicked. I woke up and the first thing I thought about was Mimi. I mean… I think I love him, Blake, but I just don't know if—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up, bro. You're goin' too fast. What do you mean you panicked?"

"I left. Before he could wake up, I left." Blake winced.

"That might not have been the smartest thing to do, Rog." Roger's defenses came up.

"What, like you're one to talk! How many chicks have you fucked and left?" Blake frowned.

"That's different, man. They were in it for the same reasons I was. Just sex. It's not using them if they're using me at the same time. And we aren't talking about me anyway. We're talking about you." Roger's face fell again.

"Fuck. I… I know it was stupid, Blake. But I couldn't help it."

"So why couldn't you help it? What are you scared of?" That was the question Roger had been trying to answer himself for the past couple hours.

"I… I don't want him to get sick. I'd kill myself before I'd let anything like that happen to him." It wasn't the main reason, but it was a big one. Blake sighed.

"Mark's an adult, Roger. He's not stupid, and he knows what he'd be gettin' into. You can't decide for him whether he wants to take the risk or not. And from what you told me, looks like he already decided. Nothin' you can do about that now." Roger sighed.

"What else is there?" Blake asked.

"…Nothing…" Roger wasn't sure he wanted to admit the main reason out loud.

"C'mon, Rog. I know there's more." Roger glared at him.

"How the fuck do you know there's more?"

"Cuz I know _you, _Rog. Now fuckin' tell me."

"…I…is…" Roger stumbled over the words. "How can I love him so much, Blake? Or am I just using him as a replacement for Mimi?" he finally whispered. It stung to hear himself say it. Roger wasn't expecting Blake's reaction, though. He leaned back and laughed.

"The fuck is so funny!" Roger asked after a second.

"Shit, sorry, Rog," Blake reigned himself in, "It's just, Jesus, you gettin' all freaked out and worried over nothin'!"

"It's not fucking _nothing,_" Roger growled. He was about two seconds away from kicking Blake out of his apartment. Literally. Blake sobered and looked at him.

"Well, it isn't nothin' cuz you're making it that way," Roger looked murderous, but Blake continued. "I know the answers to your questions, and so does anyone else who opens their fuckin' eyes and looks at you guys when you're together. How can you love him so much? 'Cuz he's Mark, man. He's your best friend and the best thing for you." He paused for a second. Roger let his words sink in and was surprised when they hit him as being… just _true_. Blake continued.

"Is he a replacement for Mimi? Hell, no. You love him for _him_, Rog. And it _is _possible to love more than one person. They're different people, and you love them in different ways. With Mimi, you two were passionate… there were fuckin' explosions everywhere with her. And you needed that, then. With Mark, at least from what I've seen, it's more about support… you seem calmer around him. I'm sure you've got passion with him too, but it's not the type where you guys are bitchin' at each other all the time. And that's what you need now." Blake put a hand on Roger's shoulders, and the next words came out gentler.

" And Mimi's gone, Roger. It's time you moved on. She wouldn't want you doin' this to yourself, or to Mark. She was his friend, too. She'd want you both to be happy. And you'll be happy if you let yourself be with Mark." Roger glanced at his friend.

"How the fuck did you get so smart?" he deadpanned, his thoughts racing over what Blake had said too much to really make it a joke. Blake's smile was sad.

"You're not the only one who's lost someone they love, man. And believe me, love is rare. If you're lucky enough to have found it twice…. Don't let that slip away, Rog. And for Christ's sake, don't fuck this up." Blake stood then, stretching.

"I should get back to my place. I found my keys in my Goddamn underwear. Even slept like that. Left the weirdest marks on my balls." Roger winced.

"That was something I did _not _need to know," he muttered. Blake grinned and moved to the door. He looked back when he opened it.

"Think about it, man. And call Mark. Knowin' him, he's probably flippin' out. Later."

Then Roger was left alone in his apartment.

He sighed, and raised a hand to rub at his neck. He knew Blake was right, but it still scared him. He could deal with that, though. He had to. For Mark. For himself.

_For us, _he thought.

He stared at the phone for a minute, trying to gather up the courage to pick it up and dial. Finally, he grabbed it, punching in the memorized number to Mark's apartment. His heart jumped into his throat as it rang, and rang, and rang. Finally, just as he was about to hang up, the ringing stopped.

"Hello?" Mark's weary voice reached his ear. He sounded half-dead. Shit.

"Mark?" he got out, cursing himself at the shakiness of his voice. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"It's Roger."

* * *

AGGGH! So sorry about the cliff-hanger! I shall get the next chapter done ASAP! If you want it done sooner rather than later... well, I've always been a whore for reviews. The more reviews I get, the quicker it'll get out. Just a suggestion, though. XD  



	12. Chapter 12

**HAPPY HAPPY EASTER! **I bring you chapter 12 as an Easter gift, cuz I ain't no Goddamn bunny who hides colored eggs... which is a point I've often been quite sore about, but we can't always get what we aspire to, I suppose... And I looked _soo_ good with the ears on too...

I digress. I hope you enjoy this next installment! XD

_

* * *

One hour earlier: _

Mark pulled the covers tighter around him, pushing his head deeper into the pillow. He breathed in deeply and Roger's scent curled into him. It was like a balm that somehow burned at the same time. He sighed. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

He couldn't believe himself. After he'd traced every grain in the wood of the kitchen table, counted all the tiles on the floor and noted every slight peel in the wallpaper, Mark had somehow found himself drawn to his room. He'd fallen into his bed fully clothed, rolled to the side that Roger had slept on and tried to find any scrap of evidence that last night hadn't been some sort of dream.

And now he was still laying there, breathing in Roger's scent and filling the slight indent he'd left in the mattress. In spite of the fact that it only managed to drive him deeper into depression while somehow soothing him at the same time. Maybe not in spite of the fact, but because of it.

_I am such a Goddamn masochist. _

He'd tried to resign himself to the thought that it was a one-time thing, that Roger had been drunk, that they both hadn't been thinking straight. It was obvious that for whatever reason, Roger hadn't liked it, and while that was enough to shatter Mark's already damaged heart, it still wasn't enough to make him able to forget it and move on. He'd wanted last night so badly, and he'd thought Roger had too.

He'd been wrong. Being wrong seemed to be a pattern with him.

He'd already gone through every reason he could think of to justify why Roger had left. None of them appealed to him, and all of them only helped to increase the mental reprimands and insults he'd been throwing at himself for the past hour. It seemed that unlike relationships, self-loathing was something Mark did very well.

The first reason that had come to his mind was that the sex hadn't been good. It was the most obvious, but somehow Mark couldn't manage to believe that one. Hell, he'd heard Roger's moans and seen the way he'd shivered under Mark's touch. And knowing Roger the way he did, he knew that the guitarist wasn't that good of an actor.

The second reason could be that in the light of day, Roger had seen clearly and been appalled by what they'd done. That one stung the most, but it made a bit more sense. Before, Roger had seemed to be more attracted to women. At least in all of his serious relationships. Maybe in Roger's mind, guys just didn't fit the bill for long-term.

The final and worst reason he'd come up with was that Roger just didn't really want Mark the way that Mark wanted him to. It was possible that the guitarist had used Mark as an outlet to relieve tension and nothing more. Just the thought of it left Mark feeling nauseous. He knew that if that were the real reason, he'd never recover from it.

_I can't believe you'd use me. Just like everybody else. I thought you were different. _

He cursed at the fresh tears building in his eyes. He'd already cried enough. It was insane, the effect Roger had on him. He'd cried more in the past eleven months than the rest of his 25 years of life put together. The crying wasn't helping, anyway. If anything it just made the pain worse. The sobs felt like they were splitting his chest in two. He was exhausted, body, mind and soul. He could feel himself breaking, and he was powerless to stop it.

_I told you how easy it would be for you to destroy me. Didn't you believe it? Or did you just not care…_

Part of him was furious. Part of him wanted nothing more than to hunt Roger down and kick the shit out of him. He wanted Roger to experience just a taste of the agony he was going through right now. And he was appalled at himself for wanting that.

The larger part of him just wanted Roger back. He wanted to be held and told it was all a misunderstanding, that Roger loved him… even fucking _cared_, just a little. He wanted to forget any of this had ever happened. He would gladly go back to being Roger's friend, even if it hurt like hell, as long as he didn't lose him completely. Then he had to wonder if he was ever anything more than just a friend to Roger in the first place. He winced. It sucked that he was still capable of feeling even more hurt at that thought.

Even though the worries and insecurities were coiling in on him, causing the pain pulsing behind his eyelids, Mark felt so Goddamn _tired_ that soon his eyes were slipping shut and he was falling asleep again. He welcomed it. Maybe in the darkness he could forget, even if just for a while.

He was jolted awake by the ringing of his telephone. He groaned, rolling out of bed and padding slowly back into the living room. He was tempted to ignore it, but the ringing was causing his pounding headache to intensify, and he'd rather just tell whoever it was to fuck off so he could go back to sleep. If it was a telemarketer he was going to go completely postal.

He sighed in relief when he picked up the phone and the loud ringing ceased. He raised it gingerly to his ear.

"Hello?" he mumbled into the receiver. Whoever it was it had better be good.

"Mark?" he heard a familiar voice ask, and he froze. "It's Roger."

He tried to get his thoughts back together, but they'd been so completely derailed by those two simple phrases that he couldn't even begin to form a coherent sentence. This was so completely out of character for his best friend that he'd never thought in a million years that it would be Roger. When Roger ran, he _ran_. He didn't call for weeks, sometimes even months. Mark had thought he'd have to spend a lot of time and energy tracking Roger down after he'd dealt with some of the emotional fallout. Apparently, this was not the case.

_Duh, Mark, _his mind supplied. Well, at least that had been a somewhat coherent thought. He was recovering.

Mark stayed silent for a long moment, and finally Roger spoke again.

"Listen, about last night…" Roger started. Mark managed to get it together at the words and cut him off.

"Don't, Roger," he muttered. His eyes closed and he leaned heavily against the table. "Spare me whatever rejection speech you were planning. I've got the picture." He couldn't help the bitterness that leaked into his voice. At the shocked silence, Mark moved to hang up the phone.

"No, that's not… I mean, shit, Mark!" Mark heard Roger exclaim, and moved the phone back to his ear. In his own apartment, Roger started to pace. "Just… just fucking listen, okay?"

If it were any other type of situation, Mark would have been amused that Roger had practically squeaked the last part out. He sighed.

"I'm listening," he prompted when there was another pause.

"It's just... Look, I… I'm sorry about what happened this morning. I just… I panicked. I mean, it happened so fast and I guess… I need some time to process this." Roger's fingers dragged through his hair nervously. Mark suppressed the sudden anger boiling in his stomach.

"You could have woken me up long enough to tell me," he muttered. "Listen, Rog, I can understand if it's not what you want. Just please… don't draw this out anymore. If it was a mistake—"

"It wasn't!" Roger cut him off, and Mark was surprised at how adamant he sounded. "I knew what I was doing, Mark, even if I'm freaking out now… even if I don't quite understand… But it was _right_ last night. It was right with you." Mark tried to fight it back, because he knew he'd only be disappointed in the end, but he couldn't help the sudden feeling of hope that lit in his chest.

"You didn't hate it, then?" he whispered, no longer in control of his own voice.

"God, no!" Roger hissed. "It was… Jesus. It was amazing, Mark. It's just… I need some time to think about this. I don't know why, but I'm – I feel all fucked up. Confused. I don't know. I need to figure this out. Can we just… fuck, I don't know, take a break from each other for a couple days so I can?"

Mark couldn't help the self-depreciating laugh that fell from his lips.

"Roger, when have you ever needed _my _permission to do anything?" he asked. Roger cringed. "Do you even consider us 'together' in the sense that would constitute us taking a 'break'?"

Roger could understand that Mark was angry. Hell, he deserved it, didn't he? But to hear the normally calm voice twisted like that, knowing that he'd been the one to cause it, made something inside him break a little.

"Please, Mark," he begged. He was surprised he could. As a general rule, Roger Davis did _not _beg. "I know I don't deserve it, but please, give me a chance to figure this out. I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you. I just can't…" he trailed off. He knew if he tried to go on, the sob catching in his throat would cause his voice to break.

At the pleading tone in Roger's voice, a tone he'd only ever heard the guitarist use with Mimi as she lay dying in the hospital, all of Mark's anger dissolved. It wasn't fair that Roger had this much power over him. It wasn't fair that he still loved the bastard so much.

But then again, it'd been proved to him over and over that life was anything but fair. He let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

"Okay, Rog," he said, reigning in the sudden urge to start sobbing into the phone, to beg Roger to just stop it, to put him out of his misery now instead of building up all this false hope. "Just… call to let me know how it's going, if it takes more than a few days, okay?"

"Yeah," Roger answered, the relief apparent in his voice, "Yeah, I can do that."

"Okay. I guess I'll talk to you later?"

"Yeah. Talk to you later, Mark," Roger said, forcing himself to hang up when everything in him screamed not to.

Mark waited until the continuous beeping of the dial tone reached him. His eyes empty, he put the phone back.

"Love you," he whispered, tears making his vision swim again.

_Enough to let you do this to me. Enough to let you make me hope again, when I know it's useless. _

Mark slid down to the floor tiredly. His fingers dug into the carpet. It was only a matter of time before Roger left him for good.

He could only pray that he wouldn't survive the second time around.

_

* * *

Monday, 3:17 pm:_

Chris sat in the break room, his coffee cooling in his hands as he glared at the wall, lost in his thoughts. Everyone who came in and found him in this state knew to steer clear of him. A pensive Christian, especially one with _that _look on his face, was a Christian to be avoided. It usually meant he was about three seconds away from either throwing something, bitching someone out, a combination of the two, or, worst of all, staying eerily silent for the rest of the day.

Christian's mood swings were legendary.

There were only two people who could hope to approach Christian while he was in this state and not get their heads bitten off. One was Bethany Vine, who, since she was the head producer of Vivre, put up with the least amount of bullshit from him. The other was the cause of Christian's mood, and wasn't likely to show up. Mark had been avoiding him since he'd come in this morning, after all.

Luckily for everyone involved, Beth had just decided to stop by the break room for a cup of coffee herself. As she walked in, poured her caffeine and paused for a moment to run her fingers through her short red hair, everyone else in the room let out a collective sigh of relief. No one envied her job of damage control with the resident prima donna.

Noting the look on Christian's face, she rolled her eyes and immediately walked over to him, sitting down with the metallic scrape of chair against floor. She put her mug down and leaned an elbow on the table, resting her head on her palm. One eyebrow raised quizzically.

"So… who pissed in your coffee?" she asked. Chris's gray eyes snapped to attention, softening slightly when he saw who was addressing him.

"No one," he muttered, bringing the cup to his lips, taking a sip and then wincing. "It's just colder than my last date, apparently."

"Last date? Since when are you dating again?" Beth asked. "I thought you were exclusively messing around." She failed to notice the contradiction of terms. "Well, at least since that whole thing with Mark didn't work out." Chris glared at her.

"I don't remember ever expressing to you a desire to see Mark anywhere but professionally." Beth snorted.

"Sweetie, give me a little credit. I may get stuck in my office more than I'd like, but I _do_ know what goes on among my staff members." Chris couldn't help but smirk.

"You get to hear all the juiciest tid-bits from the gossip vine in your position, don't you?"

"Chris-dear, I _am_ the gossip vine," she smiled. "Fits the name, doesn't it?"

"I will ignore the fact that you just made a horrible pun for both of our sakes."

"Mmm… nice try in diverting the conversation. You had a date?"

"Not a _date_, really," Chris hedged. "I just got stuck taking care of an inebriated closet homosexual this weekend. It was the first time I've been in close proximity with a man and a bed at the same time since a couple weeks ago, so I figured it warranted being noted."

"Two weeks of celibacy? With your sex drive, it's a wonder you haven't imploded."

"You'll notice I said 'in close proximity with a man and a bed at the same time'. I didn't say anything about not having sex for two weeks." Beth winced.

"Please tell me I don't have to have the carpets in your office cleaned again," she joked. Chris grinned.

"No, but you might want to disinfect your desk."

"You are _so_ lucky I know you wouldn't dare, or I'd have to kill you, you horny little bastard."

"Sticks and stones, love. Sticks and stones."

"Anyway, what's got you sitting here worrying your pretty little head off? You've got everyone in a twenty-foot radius scared shitless." Chris sighed wistfully.

"It's nice to have that effect on people."

"Christian."

"Alright, alright. I've been trying to track Mark down all day. He's been quite elusive, and it's become pretty obvious that he's avoiding me. I want to know why."

"Ah. Well, if it helps, just after lunch I sent him to help Dan out in putting the finishing touches on next week's show. No doubt he's been hiding out in the cutting room. If you hurry, I'm sure you could corner him there." Chris smiled then stood, pausing to place a light kiss to his friend's cheek.

"Thanks, love. I owe you a drink for the well-timed information." Beth just laughed and waved him away.

"I'll put it on your tab."

_

* * *

Two minutes later: _

Chris knocked on the door, and after hearing a muffled, "Come in," stepped into the cutting room, giving his eyes a minute to adjust to the sudden darkness. He made out two figures in the back of the room. He saw a short glint of light reflect off of Mark's glasses. He was sure if he could make out expressions, Mark would have that adorable worried furrow to his brow. He grinned.

"Daniel, sweetheart, is that you?" he addressed the other shadowy figure.

He loved to tease the poor kid. He'd come from a very strict religious background… one rivaling Mark's. Only he'd taken the lessons more to heart. Gay people still made him nervous, even though he tried his damnedest to fight the homophobia. Chris probably wasn't helping his struggle much, but it was amusing as hell.

"Uh… y-yeah," he stuttered. Chris could almost feel Mark's disapproving frown. He'd often told Chris he was only exacerbating the problem.

"Well, would you mind giving Marky and I a couple minutes alone? I'm sure it won't take long…" He pumped the innuendo into the request, biting back a laugh when Daniel actually let out an uncomfortable squeak.

"Sure," Daniel said hurriedly, and before Mark could protest or try to explain, he was out the door. Chris finally let out the laugh he'd been holding in.

"God, I love that boy," he chuckled. He blinked when Mark flicked the lights on.

"Why the hell do you always have to terrify him like that?" he asked with a glare.

"Because he allows himself to be terrified. Really, Marky, you have no sense of humor."

"No, I just actually have to work with him most of the time. I'd rather not have a homophobic cameraman who believes I'm having sex with you working under me."

"Ah, well, I suppose we can't always get what we want. Give him a couple more months and he'll be over it. I mean, you got over it, didn't you?"

"Yes, well, the big difference there is that I'm bi. Daniel is so straight it hurts." Mark was surprised at how easily he fell into the comfortable banter. He was almost sorry he'd been avoiding Chris all day. He needed this kind of human contact, especially now.

As soon as the lights had come on, Chris had immediately noticed the dark rings under Mark's bloodshot eyes, the drawn look to his face. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His shoulders were slumped, and there was something about him that just seemed… _defeated. _ Chris finished his perusal of his friend and frowned.

"Okay, enough about Daniel. What the hell is wrong, Mark? Why've you been avoiding me all day, and why do you look like complete and utter shit?" He immediately regretted being so blunt about it when the tension in Mark gave an almost audible snap, his eyes becoming guarded. This was not good.

"Nothing, Christian. I don't know what you're talking about." Mark turned away and went over to the splicer, making a false show of fiddling with the locking clamps.

"Yes you do," Christian said, putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him away from the machine. "What happened, Mark? I know it's something about Roger…" Mark wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Look at me, Mark," Christian snapped, tilting the filmmaker's face up with a gentle hand. Their eyes met, and Chris knew he wasn't imagining the pain he saw there.

"Please, Chris," he whispered. "I don't want to talk about it. I can't." Then Mark was turning away again.

Chris knew when Mark could be cajoled into talking about something. However, there were rare instances when the filmmaker's stubborn streak came out and he refused to go any further on a subject. Chris could already see that this was one of those times.

In the year he'd known Mark, Chris had never seen him close himself off this much, this quickly. Sure, Mark had never really let anyone completely in, but he had never shut anyone completely out, either. The filmmaker looked practically dead, his entire body speaking of dejection and, most alarmingly, acceptance of it. Mark had given up.

Chris's jaw clenched as rage started to boil deep in his stomach. Something had happened between Roger and Mark, he was sure of it, but it had obviously gone wrong. After talking to Mark at the club that night, Chris knew that he had been ready and willing to finally give in to his love for the guitarist. Chris had let them alone all weekend because he hadn't wanted to interrupt, but now he saw he might have made a mistake. It might be biased of him, but he was convinced of where most of the blame for this fiasco lay. And he'd be damned if he'd stand by and watch his best friend hurt like this.

Roger was _so _dead.

_

* * *

5:48 pm that evening: _

Roger snapped his guitar case closed. He was so distracted that he pinched his finger in a lock. He hissed, muttered a curse and started shaking the injured hand back and forth. He stopped to examine it, relieved when he saw that the skin hadn't been broken. The last thing he needed today was to have to tell their producer he'd turned the studio into a biohazard.

He'd been thinking about what had happened between him and Mark for the past two days. Sometimes he felt no closer to a decision than he had been that first morning after. He couldn't mess around about this for much longer. He was running out of time.

Part of him had still been avoiding the problem. It was a habit for Roger to ignore the big problems and close himself off, become distant from everyone. He was almost better at it than Mark when it came right down to it. Hell, he'd stayed locked in his room barely eating or sleeping and only going out to get a hit for almost a month after April died, before Mark had forcibly shipped him off to rehab.

Blake had been shooting him worried glances all day long. Even Jeff, who was much more oblivious than even Blake, had asked him what was wrong at lunch. He'd answered the only way a brooding Roger could; with a blank stare and the assertion that it was, "Nothing".

If there was one thing that was certain now, he knew that he loved Mark. He hadn't been able to sleep, he could barely force himself to eat, and it was only years of habit that caused him to take his meds. He could keenly feel Mark's absence, almost as if it was a physical pain. He knew he couldn't live without the filmmaker. So why didn't he just give in?

The bottom line was that he was just too Goddamned scared of it all. With a sardonic smile, he realized that what he was feeling now was very similar to how he'd felt when Mimi had first started coming around. The reasons for why him and Mark together was a bad idea kept spinning through his mind, recycling all the old hang-ups. And if how he was feeling for Mark now was so similar to how he'd felt for Mimi, it might be possible that he _was_ only thinking of Mark as a replacement.

He groaned. He'd been thinking the same things over and over and _over_, and he still wasn't sure about what he had to do. He almost wished it wasn't his decision to make, but he knew that it wasn't up to anyone but him. Only he could figure out what it was that he really wanted.

The studio door creaked open, and Blake popped his head in. Roger looked up and grabbed his guitar, making his way over to the door.

"You ready to go?" he asked. Technically, they should have left at least a half an hour ago, but they'd been on a roll, and no one had been ready to pack up. It seemed that Roger composed better under emotional strain.

"Uh… Roger, I think there's someone here to see you, man," Blake told him.

"Who?" Roger asked. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and he knew it wouldn't be Mark, even though the filmmaker had dropped by the studio a couple of times before… well, before Roger had fucked everything up.

"Christian."

"Chris? What the hell? How did he even know where to find me?"

"That's the thing, man," Blake said. "He called my cell around four and asked me for directions." Well, that made sense. Roger remembered Blake stepping out in the hallway to take a call around then.

"Okay. Well, where is he?"

"Down at the front desk… pissin' off the secretary." Roger winced.

"Well, let's go down there, then."

"Me too?" Now Blake looked nervous.

"Safety in numbers, Blake."

Roger knew that Christian would be ready to kill him. If Roger had been in Chris's position he'd be ready to kill himself. That didn't mean he was all that eager to die, however

"Okay, man. I'm not gettin' involved, though. This is your mess."

"Fine, fine."

Roger left his guitar and they rode down the elevator to the lobby. With a ding, it opened, and Roger was greeted with a fuming Christian and a frazzled looking receptionist. When Chris noticed them, he gave Roger a _very_ disturbing smile, sauntering over in a way that made Roger feel like a deer in headlights.

"Roger, _darling,_" Chris said, his tone not matching his words at all. "If I may have a moment?"

Then he was grabbing Roger by the front of his shirt and dragging him out the side door, Blake following behind with a shocked look on his face. Roger had a short moment to think that Christian really _was_ a hell of a lot stronger than he looked before they were out in the alley and Chris was releasing him roughly.

While Roger had known Chris was ready to scream, yell and insult him at a level he'd only had hints of before, he never expected the guy to actually hurt him. Well, until there was a fist slamming into his jaw and Roger was tossed back like a rag-doll into the brick wall. His vision went blotchy and he tasted blood. He heard an exclamation from Blake and a scuffle that was the bassist placing himself in between the two of them. Well, so much for not getting involved.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa, _man!" Blake was saying. "Calm the fuck down!"

Roger gathered himself and stood. Chris was glaring at him murderously from beyond Blake. Roger was suddenly very grateful that Blake was there, because if he hadn't been, Roger probably would have fought back. And getting into a fist-fight with one of Mark's best friends wasn't something he needed to add to his already bad record.

"What the _fuck _is wrong with you!" Christian finally seethed after a few moments of silence.

"Uh…" Roger had no idea how to answer _that_ question.

"What the hell did you _do _to him, anyway?" Chris continued, oblivious to any sound Roger had made.

"Wait, what?" Roger's eyes widened. "You mean Mark didn't tell you?"

"No, he didn't tell me, you asshole," Chris sniped. "Maybe you didn't notice, but when something life-altering happens to Mark, he has this tendency to detach. He won't say a Goddamn thing to me."

"Well, then… what right do you have to get so pissed off when you don't even _know?_" Roger glared. He knew he had no right to be defensive, but Roger's emotions and actions didn't often follow what his logical side was telling him.

"Don't even fucking start," Chris lowered his voice. His tone was downright _dangerous. _"I know you did _something, _Roger. It isn't everyday that Mark looks like he's ready to jump off a fucking building." Blake had moved back and was glancing back and forth between them like he was at a tennis match. Roger's next reply caught in his throat as he took in Chris's words.

"Wha–What do you mean?" he stuttered.

"Goddamnit, Roger I trusted you with him! What's more important, _he_ fucking trusted you! And you – you fucking _shattered_ him."

Roger was at a complete loss. He'd had absolutely no idea that he'd hurt Mark as badly as Christian was saying he had. It was the last thing he wanted to happen. He'd been so caught up in his own problems that he hadn't really given a lot of thought to how Mark would react.

_I'm such an asshole. _

Roger couldn't look Chris in the face, then, and his eyes swept to the ground. What the hell was he going to do now? As his shoulders dropped, he heard Chris give out a tired sigh.

"Do you have any idea," Chris whispered, "what I would have given… shit, what a part of me would _still _give, to have him love me the way he loves you?" The shock generated by that statement caused Roger to raise his eyes again. Chris didn't look so ready to kill him now. He just looked… _sad. _

"Fix it, Roger," Chris muttered, and he was the one to look away this time. "Because as much as it hurts sometimes to see you two together, it kills me even more to see him like this."

And with that final statement, Chris started walking away. Roger watched him go, and their eyes locked when Chris turned around for a moment.

"But I swear to God, Roger," Chris said, "if you hurt him again, I'll hurt _you_ ten times over." With that look on his face, Roger didn't doubt him for a second.

Then Chris was really gone after turning sharply out of the alleyway. Roger stared after him, completely numb with the shock of the encounter. Blake was the one who broke the silence.

"Holy _fuck_, man," he breathed almost reverently. "You just got the shit kicked out of you by a skinny, white, British, gay guy." Roger's lips tilted up slightly.

"A skinny, white, British, gay guy with one hell of a right hook," he corrected. Blake laughed at that.

Roger rubbed at his jaw for a moment and his smile grew. Chris trying to knock some sense into him might have been the best thing that could've happened.

"Blake… can you take care of the equipment? I've got something I need to do," Roger said after a moment.

"Sure, man," Blake answered, giving a slight squeeze to Roger's shoulder and walking back inside. Roger was left alone in the alley.

He followed Chris's steps out and hailed a taxi. It was at least a ten minute drive to Mark's apartment from here, not taking into account the fact that they'd be driving during the tail-end of rush hour.

He only hoped he wouldn't be too late.

* * *

AGGGHHH! Is that a cliffhanger? Is that two in a row? FUCK! Please don't kill me:Dodges thrown rotten tomatoes: Review for me... Chapter 13 will get out. I promise... just... it might be a while... cuz... final exams... I'm SORRY! I'm SORRY SORRY SORRY! (Roger should take a page out of _my_ book, eh? )  



	13. Chapter 13

MUAHA! Exams are over, and I have a WHOLE month of nothing but lazing around and writing before I go away to work at a summer camp. This means that I will be able to finish all the shit I wanted to do. Hoorah

This chapter is dedicated to the glorious Katie, who I freaked out with my expletives while trying to fix my shower, then freaked out again when I told her I was going to dedicate this chapter to her because of it, and probably freaked out a third time by actually following through on dedicated it to her. All is well.

Enjoy the fluff. It's totally not my fault. >:-D _

* * *

33 minutes later: _

Gray-blue eyes stared out at nothing as the wind cut a stinging path across his face. Chris sighed and let out a puff of air to blow aside some errant strands of hair. As far as he was concerned, heartbreak wasn't worth the love it took to get there. It was a big part of the reason he'd refused to make any real attachments to anyone in the past. He'd learned the hard way when he was younger and more naïve.

Funny that a man who reminded him of the person he was, the person he'd hated and spent years changing into the jaded young man he was now, could bust right through all the walls he'd built up around himself. His lips tilted up in a smirk at the irony of it. Ironic, but so Goddamn typical. He let out another sigh, leaning his face on a hand and bringing a lukewarm latte to his lips.

The café was mostly deserted. Chris liked it that way. He needed to be alone when he wanted to brood, and if he could brood and drink coffee at the same time, that was all the better. It might be pathetic, but that didn't bother Christian so much as the dull pain he felt running through his body. This sucked.

Chris was nothing if not a pragmatist. He could always salvage something from a bad situation, but in this case nothing seemed salvageable. All he could see stretching out before him was an empty future full of casual sex. Without the one thing he really wanted. Without Mark.

He wondered again how he'd managed to be stupid enough to fall in love. He'd always thought that after…_that_…he'd be able to bring himself above such deplorable emotions. Mark had certainly brought him down a peg, in more ways than one. _Jesus_. Just the thought of that first meeting they'd had, the shiver that shook him when that intense blue gaze and lopsided grin had been turned on him…

He cut off the thoughts before they could become too painful. Mark loved Roger. He had to keep telling himself that. The only way Mark would ever really be happy was if he was with Roger. Chris couldn't give him that. He couldn't be the man Mark wanted, and that wasn't his fault. Mark couldn't stop loving Roger anymore than Christian seemed to be able to stop loving Mark. There was the crux of the matter, and sitting here brooding wasn't going to change that.

He took another sip of his drink. Well, brooding wasn't about changing things. Brooding was about giving Chris a little time to grieve what he'd lost.

_What you never really had,_ he reminded himself sharply.

After a single life-changing incident a few years ago, Chris had always considered himself a cold-hearted bastard. Before Mark, if he'd wanted something, he would have gone after it, consequences be damned. If this was just a matter of _wanting_ Mark, he would've done everything in his power to get Roger out of the picture. But it wasn't just wanting Mark. It was more than that. It was something a little harder to define, something that Chris still didn't fully understand himself.

He'd been surprised, after all. He never thought he was capable of loving someone so much that he'd be able to step aside, just to make them happy. Thinking of someone else before himself was a relatively new experience for Chris.

_Maybe there's some hope for me yet, _he thought with a smile.

And even if he was feeling like shit now, he knew he'd get through this. It would be hard, but Chris was a stubborn son of a bitch. There's no way he'd let this beat him. Besides, he'd gladly go through any agony in the world to be there for Mark, to protect him, to make sure at least one of them got what they wanted.

Christ. If he didn't watch out, he'd turn into some damn closet romantic. It would totally ruin his image.

It would all be okay. Somehow, it would turn out alright. They'd all make it through this. The world kept turning whether or not Christian held a depressing and fruitless love for an unavailable filmmaker. And cliché as the old saying was, it felt true to Chris. Better to have loved and lost…

He took a last gulp of his drink, stood, and walked out of the café. He pitched his empty cup into the first garbage can he saw. It was time to grab a bite to eat, then go out and pick someone up. Chris was good at cutting his losses after all. With a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he let go of the pain on the next gust of wind.

His face lit with a humorless smile. Damn. Didn't work. Well, it was worth a try.

_10 minutes earlier: _

Roger wasn't even aware of the loud honking of horns that came with a rush hour traffic jam. The ten-minute taxi ride to Mark's apartment had already taken a little over twenty minutes. It would probably be another twenty before they got there. Thank God Roger could afford the fare now. Well, just this once. He wouldn't want to make a habit of it.

He was almost thankful that it was taking so long. It was giving him some time to sort out a few last questions. Christian had cleared a lot of his rotating thoughts up, but Roger wanted to be completely sure he was doing the right thing. Well, sure that it _felt _like he was doing the right thing, at least.

He did a mental recap of everything he'd come to conclude. The first and most obvious was that he loved Mark. And now he knew that it wasn't because Mark was a replacement for Mimi. He'd had years to do that, but he hadn't. He'd never really wanted anyone since Mimi until he realized how he felt about Mark. And now, looking back, he could see hints of the attraction even before Mimi had come into the picture.

Before, he'd always written off the thrill that would run through him when Mark would give him a real smile. He hadn't given much thought to how comforting it had been to hold Mark's hand, to be held by the filmmaker during his painful withdrawal. He'd rationalized it when he'd felt that dull ache in his chest whenever Mark had given him a disappointed frown afterwards, when he'd refused to leave the apartment. He'd even ignored the way his heart would speed up when Mark would squeeze his shoulder and tell him the newest song he'd written was beautiful.

A second thing he'd been hung up on was the thought that he didn't really deserve Mark. He realized now what complete bullshit _that_ was. It didn't matter if he didn't think he deserved Mark. Mark obviously loved him, and didn't _Mark_, more than anyone Roger knew, deserve what he wanted? And while Roger might not understand why Mark wanted _him_, it was kind of pointless to let it hold him back. Especially when it was what Roger wanted, too.

Another thing he'd been afraid of was that he would hurt Mark. Christian had given him a rude awakening on that one. He was probably hurting Mark more now than he ever could if they were actually together. His gut clenched at the thought of what he was putting Mark through. He knew he had to get over the pain and the guilt of it all, because more than anything else, he wanted to make Mark happy.

Besides Mimi and April, he'd never really felt that way about someone. He wanted to do everything in his power to make Mark smile, to make his gorgeous blue eyes light up with a laugh. And he'd be more than happy to spend the rest of his life doing it.

That brought him to the fear of his disease. The fear that he'd get Mark sick, and that he'd leave Mark devastated when he actually went, as he knew he would in the near future. The idea of his impending mortality had always scared him, but…_shit_… now it terrified him.

He'd made some peace with the fact that Mark knew what he was doing. If Mark wanted to take the risk, then it was his decision to make, not Roger's. And they could be careful. Roger would make _sure_ they'd be careful. He would never be able to live with himself if they didn't take every precaution and something happened. But it wouldn't. He had to keep telling himself that.

The other fear, that fear of leaving Mark, had been put to rest, once again, by Chris. Strange as it was, that look in the other man's eyes hadn't driven Roger crazy with jealousy as it normally would have. Okay, to be honest, it _had_ made Roger a little jealous. But more than anything, it had eased his worries. He could see that Chris loved Mark just as much as he did. He knew that when it was his time to go, he'd be leaving Mark in good hands. He could trust Chris to take care of him. And that took a huge weight off his mind.

The final thing he'd realized was that he didn't even feel that _need_ to have Mimi here anymore. Sure, he still missed her, but he couldn't honestly say if she was here that he would choose her over Mark. He was a different person now, and he wanted different things. Mimi had been right for him then, and he would always love her for that, but she wasn't what he needed now. He needed Mark.

He might feel a little guilty about it, but he pushed that emotion away. It was pointless to feel like that. The fact of the matter was that Mimi had been gone for a long time. His friends were right when they said he should move on. And he somehow felt that Mimi would understand. Hell, if he'd been the one to go, what was left of his spirit, soul… _whatever_ would feel the same about Mimi. He would want her to find someone else to spend the rest of her time with. No one deserved to be completely alone.

Almost as if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, he could clearly feel the cold, metal sensation of his wedding ring weighing on his hand. He twirled it on his finger, finally making the biggest decision he'd made since he'd decided to move to LA.

It took a little bit of wiggling and pulling, but the ring that had been a constant presence on his left hand for the past three years slipped off. He studied it in the light, watching the sheen that lit up the gold. After a moment, he put it back on, only this time, it rested on his right ring finger.

The relief he felt, the freedom, was almost palpable in the air. He took a deep breath and smiled slightly. It was strange, but the love he felt for Mark swelled up in his chest, and for the first time since this whole thing had started, he couldn't wait to hold the filmmaker in his arms. Without any hang-ups, and without any regrets.

It was time to stop living in the past.

_15 minutes later: _

Mark lay slumped on his couch, staring at the ceiling. His brow was knit together in a frown, and his eyes looked right through the stucco without really seeing anything. In passing, he wondered how long he'd been lying here, but he dismissed the thought. It really didn't matter anyway.

On top of all of his worries and insecurities about what had happened with Roger, now he felt bad about how he'd treated Christian today. His friend had been genuinely worried for him, and Mark had ignored him. He'd avoided him all day, actually, and then when Christian had tracked him down, he'd dismissed him without a second thought. He didn't feel like he could deal with the concern, or, God forbid, the _pity_ he was sure would have filled his friend's eyes if he'd told him what had happened. Plus, Christian was volatile on a good day. There was no telling what he'd end up doing if he knew the whole story.

The truth was, he could deal with Christian's concern and worry, but what he couldn't deal with was the deep affection, maybe even love that he knew his friend felt for him. It hurt too much, to know that he was doing to Christian what Roger was, in effect, doing to him. While the circumstances weren't the same, the underlying principle was. And there was no way he'd be able to handle seeing his own pain reflected back in Christian's eyes.

There were times when he'd been tempted to just give in to him. Christian was gorgeous after all, and it wasn't like Mark was immune to that. He was attracted to him, sure, even loved him to an extent like he loved all his friends, but there was no way what he felt for Christian even came close to the all encompassing love, the _passion_ he felt for Roger. And it wasn't fair to Christian to risk their friendship over nothing more romantic than a physical attraction on his side. God knew the guy deserved to be loved back as much as anyone else.

So he'd detached, and pushed away from a relationship that reminded him too much of the pain he was already going through. It had nearly killed him to see the look of hurt in his friend's eyes before he left the cutting room. It couldn't be helped, though. After all, Mark had his own problems to focus on right now, as much of a selfish bastard as that made him feel.

He had thought that after a day or two, the slight feeling of hope that had come after Roger's phone call would fade. It had a little, but it was still there, and it was driving Mark crazy. He'd tried to control it, to extinguish it, but nothing worked. And he knew that it would only hurt him more in the end. The logical side of him understood that there was no way Roger was going to decide in his favor.

That's where the self-depreciating thoughts came in. Why would Roger choose him, a pale, skinny, unattractive, Jewish boy, when he could have any number of gorgeous girls or guys with his rising rock-star status? Mark had only been fooling himself when he'd thought that Roger could feel for him as anything more than a friend. He'd be lucky if they could salvage their friendship at all.

Mark had never felt so used in his life. It hurt like nothing ever had before. The idea that Roger would do something like that to him, the man who, for all his trying not to, he still loved, the man who had been his best friend for years… it left him with a bad taste in his mouth, a lump in his throat and a twisted feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He honestly didn't think he was capable of crying anymore. At some point it was like everything had just… _stopped_. All he seemed to know now was the weight on his chest and the dull pangs that swamped his body from time to time. He tried to fight it back, to focus on something else, but it seemed to require all of his attention. All that was left of his heart was a throbbing, mangled mess of guilt, fear and grief.

He wished he could just skip this part. He'd never been good at grieving. He just wanted to get past it and move on. Before, it would have been easy for him to detach and go on with his life, or at least be able to pretend that nothing was wrong. This one hit too close to home, though.

He didn't know if he'd ever be able to trust anyone again. This just reinforced all the old fears he had of opening himself up to other people. He could easily see himself digress back into how he'd been in New York before Angel, falling back into his old routines and burying himself in his work. It was so much easier than dealing with all of… _this_.

With a ragged sigh, Mark sat up. He swung his legs off the couch and propped them on the coffee table. After a moment, he realized that he didn't even know why he'd deigned it necessary to change positions in the first place.

Maybe all of this wasn't worth it. Maybe everything he'd thought about his life up to this point was a lie. Maybe Angel had gotten it completely wrong. Maybe there was no point in believing in love. He could almost feel something in him break at that last thought.

Maybe it was time to just give up.

_8 minutes later: _

Roger wiped clammy palms on his jeans as he walked up to Mark's apartment. The ride over had taken almost forty-five minutes. And while it had taken longer than he thought it would, it still didn't seem like enough time to prepare him for this. He felt like a nervous wreck.

His mind was convinced of a lot of things, but now he was worried as to whether Mark would actually forgive him for what he'd done. He knew he didn't deserve it. So now he was terrified that he'd realized everything too late, and that Mark would simply walk out of his life forever.

It was something he had to do, though. He owed them both at least that much.

With a shaking fist, he knocked tentatively on the door. After nothing happened for a few minutes, he swallowed down his fear and knocked louder. He hoped to God that Mark was home.

Mark heard the first knock at the door and decided to ignore it. He didn't care who it was, but he was in no mood to deal with anyone right now. Only when the second knock came did he sigh and get off the couch. He walked over and peered through the peephole to see who it was.

When he saw Roger standing there, a rush of blood in his ears blocked out his hearing for a minute.

He took a moment to calm down, braced himself, and opened the door. His breath caught in his throat at the wave of emotions that crashed through his small frame. What he wouldn't give to be able to just bury himself in Roger's arms. But he couldn't do that. Not now. Roger didn't want him.

Roger nearly broke down at the sight of his best friend. Chris had been right. Mark looked like he hadn't slept at all since he'd last seen him. Roger knew he couldn't look much better, but to see that Mark's usually youthful face seemed to have aged years in the past few days… Roger wanted nothing more than to pull the filmmaker into a hug, to try to kiss away the shadows he saw lingering in his eyes.

He stood awkwardly in the doorway. He didn't want to mess things up even more.

"Hey," he croaked out after a second. Mark, who'd seemed to be frozen before, jolted back into action.

"Hey," he said, stepping aside to let Roger in.

Roger walked past Mark, nervously glancing back. He finally took his cue from the filmmaker when Mark went over and sat on the couch. Roger joined him, but made sure to sit a foot or so away. He didn't feel like he'd earned the right to be any closer than that.

An awkward silence stretched out between them. Roger had no idea how to start, and Mark was getting ready for the rejection he was sure was coming. After a while, Roger cleared his throat.

"Fuck… I… I don't really know how to start," he admitted. Mark let out a slight sigh.

"Me neither." He finally looked at Roger's face, making eye contact for the first time since he'd arrived. His eyes widened. "Shit, Rog… what happened?" Roger raised his eyebrows in confusion, and Mark pointed to the bruise coloring the guitarist's face from Christian's punch.

"Oh… this?" he asked, wincing as he touched it. "Ah… nothing much. Uh… Chris just knocked a little bit of sense into me." He smiled a little to try to reassure Mark that it was no big deal. Even though it kind of was, but not for the reasons Mark was thinking.

"Jesus… I mean, well," Mark stumbled. "I… I didn't tell him anything. He shouldn't have done that." Great, now Roger hated him on top of not wanting him. He probably thought he was a coward who sent Christian to deal with his problems. Could this get any better?

"No… I mean, I know. Chris told me."

"Oh."

"Listen… Mark…" Why was this so Goddamn _hard_? "I… what do you want?"

"What?"

"I mean, out of this, from me. What is it that you want?" Fuck. That hadn't been what he'd meant to say! Why couldn't he just say it?Mark gave another sigh, his eyes slipping shut.

"I'll understand if you don't want me that way, Roger. It's okay. You just have to say so," Mark answered. Roger cursed under his breath.

"That wasn't what I… fuck. Let me just try again, okay?" Mark looked at him expectantly. "I… I'm really sorry that I freaked out," Roger tried again. "I think I owe you an explanation for that at least." Mark stayed silent and let Roger continue.

"It's just that… the first thing I thought about when I woke up was Mimi," Roger said. He tried to ignore the almost unnoticeable wince Mark gave at that, the pain that flashed in his eyes. "I mean, it was the first time I'd been that close to anyone since her, and I guess I just panicked. I didn't want to make you into a replacement for her. You don't deserve that.

"I walked to the park after that, sat there thinking for a while. I was terrified, Mark. I didn't want to hurt you, but I didn't want to lose you either. What had happened between us was… scary. It was so fucking powerful… and… I didn't know if I could handle that.

"Really…I really loved every second of what had happened… but at the same time… I had to live with the fact that I could get you sick. I've never been with anyone who wasn't positive since April, and… well, you're my best friend. I'd never forgive myself if I got you sick."

Roger found it was easier to keep going once he got started, but he wished that Mark wasn't so transparent. He could plainly see that a lot of what he was saying was hurting him. It was almost as if Mark was just waiting for the killing blow. Roger was grateful that he wasn't interrupting, though.

"I felt all confused about it," Roger continued. "Part of me felt like I didn't deserve you… that I'd somehow just fuck you up with everything that's wrong with me. And I have this death sentence hanging over me. I was scared of you having to deal with that, even though that was fucking stupid, because you already have to. But I didn't want to feel like I'd have to leave you just when I'd… found you."

He ended there, going over what he'd said and trying to think if there was some way he could explain it better. Mark finally spoke, however, and cut off the thoughts he'd been having.

"Well, if that's the way you feel about it, Rog…" Roger had to look away. It was killing him to see the pain in those blue eyes. "Can we… can we still be friends?" Roger's eyes widened. Mark really thought he was going to reject him, didn't he?

"I don't know, Mark," Roger said, and instantly regretted his choice of words when Mark seemed to break a little more. "No, I mean… I don't want to be just friends." Mark's eyes snapped up to meet his again. "I want to… to be with you." He winced at how lame he sounded, but there. All the cards were on the table now.

Mark was almost in shock. He'd never truly thought that Roger would want this. Hadn't he just listed all the reasons it was a bad idea?

"But… you just said…" Mark managed to stutter out after a second.

"I know, but I've done a lot of thinking," Roger replied, much more adamant now. He scooted over a little on the couch and took one of Mark's hands in his. Even that small contact sent a shock through both of them. "I was being so Goddamn stupid. It's not up to me whether or not you want to risk it. It's not up to me whether I deserve you or not. You aren't a replacement for Mimi, and you never will be. I don't want her. At least not anymore. I want you."

Mark couldn't believe what he was hearing. Roger wanted him? But at the same time that elation surged through him at those words, there was fear, anger, even resentment. How could he just pretend like nothing bad had happened between them and forget it all?

"Fuck… I wasn't… didn't expect that," Mark muttered after a second. A pang of guilt hit Roger then at the self-loathing in Mark's tone. He must have been a bastard to make Mark doubt that he would want him so deeply.

"I'm sorry, Mark," he said.

"Roger… shit… I want to say yes," Mark whispered harshly, his eyes squeezing shut, his free hand clenching into a fist. "I want to say yes, but… you hurt me, Rog. I felt like you… used me. I… I don't know if I can get past that so easily." Roger could feel Mark's hand shaking in his. He hated himself when he heard Mark's tone. He'd broken his friend's heart. How could he even hope that Mark would forgive him for that?

_I royally fucked this one up, didn't I?_

"I'm sorry. I know it doesn't make up for it, but you have no idea how sorry I am," Roger offered quietly, trying to push away the lump in his throat, the guilt at what he'd done.

"I know… it's just…" their eyes locked then, and Roger could see one question burning in Mark's gaze.

_Why? Why do you want this? Why do you want… me? _

"Shit," Roger muttered. "I'm such a bastard. I guess I should have started with that, shouldn't I?"

Mark looked at him questioningly, but Roger just pulled the filmmaker closer, wrapping his arms around him. For a minute, he thought Mark was going to resist, but with a shuddery sigh, he relaxed against him. Roger tightened his hold, rubbing his hands soothingly up and down Mark's back. Holding Mark felt just as right, just as perfect as he knew it would.

"I swear I'll never hurt you like that again," he whispered, placing a kiss on Mark's temple. "And please, Mark. If you give me another chance, I swear to God I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you don't regret it."

He pulled back slightly then, looking into Mark's eyes, feeling his own swimming with tears. He leaned forward slowly, giving the filmmaker plenty of time to pull away. He needn't have bothered. Mark wouldn't have been able to pull away if he'd wanted to.

The feel of their lips pressing against one another was like coming home. With an almost desperate sob catching in his throat, Roger pulled Mark closer, bringing one hand up to bury itself in Mark's hair. Mark wrapped his own arms around Roger's neck.

He wasn't sure how it happened, but before he knew it, he was practically lying on top of Mark, who was stretched back on the couch, his hands fisted in Roger's shirt like his life depended on it. Heat coursed through him, arousal heightening his senses when Mark opened his mouth slightly. Roger took the invitation, his tongue darting inside.

Then Mark's tongue was rubbing against his, pushing back to explore Roger's mouth the way Roger had mapped his out only moments before. With a start, he realized they were both shaking. It was fast, hot and desperate, the way they moved against each other, trying to get impossibly closer.

_Almost like I want to crawl under his skin, _Roger thought, smiling against Mark's mouth.

As nice as this was, it wasn't what Mark needed right now. Roger slowed it down, turning the desperate kisses into a long, slow exploration of the filmmaker's lips, tongue and teeth. After what seemed like an eternity, he pulled back, smiling at Mark's whimper of protest. He dotted the filmmaker's face with kisses, placing another short kiss to his neck before he stopped.

He looked into Mark's heavy-lidded eyes and gave a soft smile.

"I want to be with you because I'm in love with you, Mark," he whispered, raising a hand to Mark's face, his fingers gently tracing his features. He finally rested it on Mark's cheek, his thumb stroking along his jaw. "I love you more than anything."

And for the first time that day, Roger got Mark to smile.

Roger leaned back and brought them both up into a sitting position. He pulled Mark into his arms again, simply holding him. He thought he'd burst from the affection flooding his chest when Mark curled up against him and tucked his head under Roger's chin. They sat like that for a long time, Roger stroking his hands rhythmically up and down Mark's arms and back.

"So," Mark said finally, "I guess this means we're… what, dating?"

"Mmm, I guess that's what you'd call it," Roger allowed with a smile.

Mark leaned back and looked at Roger's face, his own warring between a smile and a frown. Roger studied him. There was one thing the guitarist could see plainly. Even though things seemed like they were going to work out, Mark still had some pain he had to work through. It would be a while before he trusted Roger completely.

He leaned forward and put their foreheads together, resting a hand on the back of Mark's neck and massaging lightly.

"I'm gonna have to earn you back, aren't I?" Roger asked quietly. Mark's eyes snapped open and gazed into his. He had that worried look on his face again. Roger just smiled.

"It's okay," he said, placing a light kiss to Mark's lips. "I'm looking forward to it."

Mark gave him another small smile, pulling Roger into another kiss.

"For some reason," he said when the kiss ended, "I am too."

Roger laughed and held Mark close. Mark let out a sigh that, for once, wasn't tired or sad.

He could get used to this.

* * *

**THE END**

Yup.

That's all she wrote.

Enjoy it.

Re-read if that's all you can do to fight off the suffocating feeling of despair...

...Okay, not really. Not the end. Scared the crap outta ya, didn't I:-D No, there should be another chapter and then an epilogue. And considering the fact that this is the first time EVAH for me to write a chapter all in one sitting, the next one should be out fairly soon. So review for me and all that. You know the drill.

After the end of this fic, I was planning on doing a series of one-shots and song-fics set in the same realm, with backstories on Chris and Blake included. Would anyone be interested in reading that at all? Let me know, PWEASE!


	14. Chapter 14

MUAHAHAHA! So... I'm a little late in getting this out. My deepest apologies. But, you must understand, I'm home for the summer, at least until I leave to counsel at a camp in a month or so, and, well, I don't have my own computer. Meaning I have to juggle when I can use it with three other siblings and my parents. Meaning it's reeeeaaaaallllllyyyy difficult to write man on man smut when your little sister is like, "C'MON, I wanna play Neopets, dammit!" and your mom is looking over your shoulder, and says, "Quivering thigh? What the hell are you writing!" So yeah. I had to be a ninja writer. My stealth points went into double digits.

Anyway, I think I more than made up for the slight delay with the fact that this is the longest chapter EVAH... like seriously, it's a double chapter with the smut included. Without the smut it's still longer than any of the other chapters. So yeah. Enjoy.

If you want to read the smut, I'll leave the link in the story where I make the cut and then again in my profile. Hoorah.

_

* * *

One month later: _

Roger let out a string of expletives when his lighter refused to work. In his opinion, there was almost nothing worse than the _shink, shink_ sound, sparks flying but not catching. It was like nails on a chalkboard. He shook the lighter against his ear, hearing the swishing of liquid. Dammit, what the hell was wrong with the thing?

"Need a light, sweetie?" an amused voice asked from behind him. He jumped at the abruptness of it, and Chris let out a chuckle. "So jumpy, Roger," he said, offering his own lit lighter.

"Well, Jesus, don't sneak up on me like that," Roger grumbled, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag. He let out a sigh of relief. Thank God for nicotine.

"Hmm, you're just too preoccupied," Chris replied, lighting his own cigarette. "What's got you standing out here looking like you're waiting to be led to the gallows anyways?"

They both slumped companionably against the brick wall, nearly shoulder to shoulder. Roger had showed up about twenty minutes ago to pick Mark up after work. Of course, after greeting Roger at the door, he'd rushed back in with a plea of, "There's just this one thing I have to get done really quickly." Knowing Mark, he wouldn't be back out for at least another ten minutes. Hence the cigarette break.

"I didn't know you smoked," Roger observed. Chris exhaled and laughed.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me, Roger," he said. "One of them is that I'm not easily distracted. You didn't answer my question."

"Ah," Roger stated succinctly.

"Fine, you don't want to talk about it, I get it," Chris pouted. "Just keep the man who probably saved your ass in the dark." Roger grinned.

Ever since he'd knocked some sense into Roger a month or so ago, things had been a little uneasy between Chris and him. Admittedly, most of it was coming from Chris' side, but Roger figured he needed some time to get over Mark and forgive Roger for what he'd done. Chris had started warming up to him again recently, though.

"Good job, by the way. I mean, doing what I said and all," Chris complimented, almost as if reading his mind. He took another drag off his cigarette. "And shit, since _he _obviously forgives you, I guess I can too. But I might still hold on to a grudge for a little while yet, after how you fucked up, not gonna lie. I'm just not that nice of a person."

"Um… thanks?" Roger let out. If there was a master of the double sided compliment/insult, it was Chris. Chris just smiled.

"He's been happy, though," he said softly. "A lot happier than I've ever seen him, even before your whole screw up. So yeah, since you're mostly the cause of that happiness," that was grumbled with a little bitterness in it, "I suppose… thanks or…whatever." He immediately took another drag off his cigarette, almost like he was trying to soften the blow to his ego for admitting Roger had done something right.

Roger grinned. Chris was really terrible at giving a compliment, wasn't he?

"Well… glad to know you approve on some level," Roger chuckled.

"If you keep up what you've been doing. Screw up again, and all bets are off," Chris muttered. But there was warmth in his tone this time, and a slight smirk on his face.

"Don't worry, I won't," Roger assured him, even if what Chris had said was partly a joke.

"Good. Now, since I've done the whole pep-talk and given you reason to believe I won't bite your head off at the slightest provocation, mind telling me the answer to what I asked in the first place?"

Roger winced. Chris really did have a one-track mind.

"You're impossible," he muttered with a smirk of his own.

"I know, and you're diverting again."

"Okay, okay," Roger sighed. He guessed it wouldn't hurt to tell Chris. The guy was Mark's best friend after all. "Well, we've been together about a month now… and it's been just a little over a year since Mark left New York…"

"No shit. That's the whole reason everyone's getting together tonight, dumbass," Chris rolled his eyes.

"Shut up and let me finish," Roger said, pleased when Chris actually listened to him for once. "Well, I thought I'd… Shit, maybe I should just show you."

Then he pulled something out of his pocket he'd been carrying around for a couple days now. Chris' face lit up in a huge grin, even though his eyes still seemed a little dark.

"Awww… that's real sweet, Rog," he cooed.

"Well, yeah… I guess. Just… a little nervous here, you know?"

"Don't be," Chris looked up at him. "He'll love it." Chris sighed, pushed off the wall and stamped out his almost-finished cigarette. "On that note, I think I'll go see what's keeping him. Probably got so caught up he started a whole new project or something. Blake and Jeff meeting us at the restaurant?"

"Yeah. Mark said Beth was gonna show too, right? And that Daniel kid?" Chris' grin was positively evil.

"Uh-huh. Danny-boy has been loosening up lately. Think I might try to seduce him just for kicks."

Chris laughed. Roger's eyes widened. Funny, he never knew Chris could cackle, too.

"Mark is going to kill you," he said with a smile.

"I know, I know. That's half the fun. Toodles!" Then Chris was practically skipping into the building, still chuckling under his breath, and Roger was left alone in the failing light.

He realized that he was still smiling, staring off at nothing. It was weird, but he'd smiled more these past few weeks than he could ever remember smiling since… well, since forever, really. He'd never even been this ecstatic when he'd been with Mimi. There'd always been too much to argue over, in between all the calm moments, and then she'd been dying… and he hadn't had much to smile about anymore.

Not that Mark and him hadn't had their share of kinks to work out. The first week had been the hardest. Mark had been terrified that Roger would turn and run at the drop of a hat, and could barely bring himself to even trust Roger with simple things, like showing up when he said he was going to, or staying when he said he would. It was understandable, but it had been hard, and they'd fought a couple times.

But he'd surprised Mark, and even after they'd gotten into a shouting match on the fifth day, Roger hadn't stormed out, but had left Mark in the living room and sat in the bedroom with the door closed for a few minutes, until they'd both calmed down. That fight had probably been what had caused Mark to start opening up a little more, because if Roger had wanted to leave, he'd have done it then. And all of Roger's anger had flowed right out of him when Mark had so tentatively poked his head into the room and asked if they could try again.

Roger sighed. He'd known Mark had a huge hold on him when they'd started this, but now Mark had him, for all intents and purposes, wrapped around his little finger. He didn't think he'd ever be able to deny the filmmaker anything again. He could only hope that Mark wasn't completely aware of that. Not that he would ever abuse the privilege if he was. Mark just wasn't that type of person.

There was that Goddamn smile again. He was so completely in love that sometimes it almost hurt. And after the first couple of bumpy weeks, they hadn't really fought that much except for the odd unimportant argument here and there. He felt that he'd earned a lot of the filmmaker's trust back, even though he still had a little ways to go.

A big part of what had helped in earning Mark back was that he hadn't pushed anything. Or at least, he'd really tried not to. Roger was very possessive by nature, but he'd attempted to step back and let Mark be with him on his own terms. Roger hadn't been all that surprised to find that since Mark had trouble trusting him, he hadn't been quite ready to commit yet. So Roger had given him space, but let him know that Roger would be there if he ever needed help working through something. And Mark had actually called him to talk problems over more often than not.

Communication is what had been most lacking in all of Roger's past relationships, and he wasn't about to make the same stupid mistakes again. This time it was too important to risk messing up. So if that meant Roger letting Mark know he loved him on a regular basis, that was fine with Roger. It wasn't half as hard as he'd thought it would be to talk about his feelings… because it was _Mark_. He could talk to Mark about anything.

The last thing that was very unique about his relationship with Mark was the amount of time they spent together just… spending time together. It wasn't like there was any lack of affection; there were plenty of kisses in between sentences, and he'd found that one of his favorite pastimes was just holding the filmmaker in his arms while they talked or watched a movie. In his past relationships, Mimi excluded, he'd spent half the time with the other person just making out and having sex. And while he definitely wanted to do those things with Mark, they weren't what defined their being together.

It still blew Roger's mind sometimes that he'd been with Mark for a month and they still hadn't had sex again yet. Even though at least two nights out of the week he'd spend in Mark's bed or Mark would spend in his, just holding onto each other. But whenever things got hotter between them, make-out sessions leaning towards more and more groping and looser articles of clothing, Roger had pulled away. It had been torture, and he could see the frustration in Mark's eyes too, but they just hadn't been ready for it. And he wanted to prove to Mark that that wasn't why he wanted him; that it wasn't about sex. He wanted Mark to trust him completely before they took that final step.

And part of the reason Roger was so nervous and excited was that tonight, he was pretty sure they were ready. Because a few days ago…

His thoughts were cut off as Chris and Mark came outside, Chris in full rant mode.

"…and I shouldn't HAVE to drag your ass away from work that Beth has told you didn't need to be done until the end of the month!" Chris was exclaiming. "Besides, it makes _me_ look bad!" Mark laughed.

"Well, maybe you should stop taking such long lunch breaks and leaving early to… what was it you were doing again?"

"Information gathering, Marky," Chris said with a straight face. "Someone has to dig up new stories."

"Right," Mark said in an unconvinced tone. "And just because you seem to think all those stories are found in bars along with young, hot, gay men doesn't mean you're doing anything but working." Chris grinned.

"Exactly. That's why I get to write off all the mai tais on my taxes." They both chuckled this time.

"Hey," Mark said when they got to him, an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry I took so long." Roger just smiled and pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around the filmmaker's slim waist.

"It's cool. I needed a cigarette break anyway." Mark's nose wrinkled.

"I could tell." Roger's grin just got wider.

"You know you think it's sexy," he whispered, pulling Mark into a brief kiss. When he pulled back, Mark's eyes were hooded.

"You're not supposed to notice shit like that," he admitted with a sigh. Roger was about to go back for another kiss when they heard a loud groan.

"_Please,_ children. Keep it in your pants for a few more minutes," Chris whined. "At least until we get to the restaurant and I'll have someone else to talk to." Mark laughed and pulled away, but kept his hand entwined in Roger's.

"Okay, okay," he said. "You're so impatient."

"No, I just hate being ignored. And around you two… it's like you don't even notice me half the time," Chris griped. All he needed was the swoon with his hand against his forehead, and he'd be perfect for one of Maureen's plays.

"I'd thought you'd be used to it by now," Mark said with a soft glance in Roger's direction. Chris scoffed.

"You've both been turned into complete sops. Simply reminds me again why I never wanted to fall in love. Makes you a complete mindless twit," he complained, without any real malice in his voice and a smile that gave him away.

He walked over to them and slung an arm over each of their shoulders, propelling them in the direction of the subway. Mark still kept his hand in Roger's and Chris was forced to walk slightly behind them. He didn't seem to notice, and was about to start rambling again, when Mark sniffed and raised his eyebrows.

"How do you get away with not smelling like smoke?" he asked. "You said you had one with Roger." Chris smiled.

"Sorry, I must keep some of my secrets," he said ominously. "Wouldn't want me to lose that appealing air of mystery that surrounds me, now would we?"

Roger and Mark both busted out laughing, completely ignoring Chris' indignant, "Hey!"

* * *

_3 days earlier: _

Mark flopped down on the couch next to Roger, offering the popcorn he'd just gotten from the kitchen. Roger grabbed the rim of the bowl and used it to pull Mark closer to him until the filmmaker was all but forced to climb into Roger's lap. After a little deliberation, he swung a leg over one of Roger's so they were tangled together and snuggled against his side. Roger put an arm over his shoulder and they shifted a little until they were both comfortable.

"What's this movie called again?" Roger asked, pressing play on the remote and shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

"Rocky Horror Picture Show," Mark answered. "Chris was horrified that I'd never seen it, and when I told him you hadn't either, he nearly burst into tears. Or popped a blood vessel. One of the two." Roger laughed around his popcorn, then swallowed.

"Yeah? Who knew Chris could get so worked up over a movie?"

"He gets worked up over the weirdest things," Mark admitted, a furrow in his brow. "He did say that watching it here wouldn't be half as good as seeing it in a theatre. Something about audience participation."

"Weird. Actually, I think I heard Collins talking about it once." Mark's eyes widened a little.

"Oh, _yeah_! That Halloween a couple years before we met Angel. He got all dressed up for it, remember?" Roger snorted.

"As dressed up as you can be in nothing but a pair of skin-tight golden shorts and tennis shoes." They both laughed.

After that, they settled down to watch the movie. He felt warm and safe, snuggled under Roger's strong arm, the guitarist's calloused thumb circling slightly now and again, catching on his shirt. It still surprised him how… _natural_ it felt, being with Roger. Sure, they had their fights, all couples did, but they were always resolved with little fuss. And Mark had truly come to believe that Roger was here to stay.

That had been the main thing causing the fights in the first place. He hadn't trusted Roger, still had a few small issues with it if he was honest. But Roger had been nothing but patient, at least as patient as Roger could be, showing him time and time again that he wasn't going to leave, that he meant it this time. And Mark had slowly started trusting him again.

It had been achingly hard at first, to force himself to open up again when he still felt so raw in so many ways. But Roger had shown him he didn't need to _force_ anything, that Roger was willing to let Mark work through it in his own way, in his own time. Mark could never really tell him how much that space had been appreciated, especially with the support that came with it. So Mark had taken the offer, and most of the time, if he just couldn't handle something or needed to talk, he'd call Roger and the guitarist would come rushing over as soon as he could.

That had been the most surprising. That Roger could be so supportive, so committed. He made it a point to let Mark know at least once a day that he loved him. Mark had never seen him this way except for that short time he and Mimi had been married. Just knowing that Roger was that emotionally involved here was… almost frightening. But nothing frightening had ever left such a warm feeling in the pit of Mark's stomach.

It had been kind of weird at points, too. That first time Roger had introduced him as his boyfriend, just trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Roger and him were _dating_. He'd brought it up with Roger once, and he'd said how he felt the same way sometimes, then gone on to explain how it seemed stupid to call Mark his _boyfriend_, because that seemed so shallow. To him, Mark was more than that, something you couldn't put such a generalized label on.

That had left Mark with a sweet ache in his chest, because he felt exactly the same way.

The only frustrating thing had been that whenever they started going farther, whenever Mark had a hand up Roger's shirt or Roger had Mark pinned to the couch, the guitarist would pull back. There was always that grimace on his face, almost as if he were in pain, holding himself back like he was. Mark knew he had to have a similar look on his face, but Roger would always say they weren't ready. That Mark didn't trust him all the way yet. It had been the single most infuriating thing Mark had ever come across, more so because he could understand what Roger was trying to do. He knew deep down that Roger was right, anyway.

And even though it pissed him off sometimes, even that was comforting to an extent. To know that Roger wasn't in this just for sex. That had been Mark's greatest fear before, that Roger had just used him as a way to get off. Knowing that that was the farthest thing from the truth was a heady feeling.

Mark wasn't sure just what it was Roger wanted, what sign he was looking for to tell them they were ready. So he'd been trying to get over his fears, and really start to trust and open up again. He felt he'd been making a lot of progress. He could honestly say he trusted Roger now. And if he was ever feeling afraid or paranoid, all it took was one phone call to the guitarist's cell to get him back on track.

"How the fuck does he even _walk_ in those heels?" Roger muttered, reaching for the popcorn. Mark's attention snapped back to the movie, only to realize that Tim Curry was dancing around in high-heels and fishnets.

"Didn't you ask Angel that, once?" he asked.

"Yeah," Roger looked very confused. "She never really told me though. All she said was something like, 'Honey, I just walk'. Fat lot of good that did in answering my question." Mark laughed.

"Maybe you should buy a pair and try it yourself." Roger snorted.

"And I'd break my Goddamn ankle. I'd never live it down."

"I'm sure Blake would never let you forget it. Actually, I don't think I would, either."

"Bastards. I'd like to see _you _try it."

"Who says I haven't?" Mark asked, actually managing to keep a straight face. Roger looked horrified for a second, then started cracking up.

"Oh my God!" he managed in between laughs. "I just… had the _funniest_ fucking image in my head… like…" he burst into another fit of laughter, "like…I could just _see_ Maureen trying to force you to wear those knee-high leather boots of hers… and then… trying to wrestle you into that fucking cat-suit…" He became completely incoherent then, laughing so hard that he had to wipe tears away from his eyes. Mark smiled.

"Come on, there's no way I'd let her do _that_!" he exclaimed.

"I dunno, Mark," Roger said with a grin after he'd calmed down. "You let her get away with a lot. There _was_ that time you fixed her sound equipment right after she'd left you for Joanne..."

The joke fell a little flat, and Mark just looked mildly offended.

"Awww, c'mon!" Roger said when Mark glanced away. Roger pulled him up so that he was straddling Roger's lap and kissed him. "I was only kidding. I'm sorry, baby."

Mark made a gulping noise in the back of his throat and his eyes widened behind his glasses.

"Did… you just… call me… baby?" he managed to choke out after a second. Roger looked at him, concerned.

"Uh… yeah?"

Mark collapsed onto him, hugging him around the shoulders for support, his body shaking so hard with laughter that he could barely keep it together. Roger saw that where he'd had to wipe tears away from his eyes, Mark had them rolling freely down his cheeks. Every time it seemed like Mark was about to calm down, he'd take a breath and start laughing again.

"Hey!" Roger said after a minute. "What's wrong with calling you baby?"

Mark looked up into Roger's pouting face, and another wave of laughter hit him. When he'd calmed down enough, he gasped out,

"Nothing… nothing...You can if you want to, I guess," he smiled at Roger and kissed him on the cheek. "It's just… I never associated the word 'adorable' with Roger Davis before…"

"I am _not _adorable!" Roger grouched, pouting even more.

"See, you keep pouting like that," Mark said, kissing his other cheek. "That's adorable. Calling me baby is adorable. You're adorable."

"Stop saying that!"

"Can't help it," Mark grinned. "'Cuz you are."

Roger just grumbled. Mark let out another short laugh.

"God, I love you," he said, without even thinking about it, placing another kiss on Roger's lips.

He pulled back when he realized that Roger had completely frozen underneath him. Quick upon the heels of _that_ realization was the realization that that had been the first time he'd told Roger he loved him. Roger was looking at him with such an intent stare, his face a mixture of joy and disbelief.

"Shit. That took me a while, didn't it?" Mark whispered, dropping another kiss on Roger's lips. And hell, since he'd already told him that much… "Well, you probably already knew, but I do love you, Rog. You're everything to me." The kiss Roger pulled him into then was nothing short of desperate.

He'd been completely blind and stupid again, hadn't he? So caught up in his own trust-issues that he had failed to notice that Roger had been afraid himself, doubting whether or not Mark really loved him. And it was one thing to know that someone loved you, but another thing entirely to hear them say it. Mark vowed he'd say it just as often as Roger said it to him from now on. At least once a day.

The kiss deepened, Roger's tongue pushing into his mouth, and _hello_, what a great fucking position to be in, straddling Roger like this, pressing them together as close as he could get, and why hadn't they done it this way before? He wrapped his arms as tightly as he could around his guitarist (and he never knew he'd ever want to be that possessive of someone as to refer to them as _his_ in his mind), burying his fingers in long hair. He moaned when Roger's hands grabbed his ass, kneading it and then pulling him down sharply.

Roger broke the kiss, and Mark nearly whimpered at the loss of that hot tongue against his, until Roger's mouth was on his neck, wet on the sensitive skin, the occasional nip bolting through him like lightning. He started moving his hips against Roger's, and _Jesus,_ they were both already hard, Roger's moan vibrating through his neck and he was sure Roger was leaving a deep bruise on his pale skin that would last for a week, but he didn't care, all he wanted was for it to keep going, to never stop, please never stop…

With a slight gasp and a groan of regret, Roger stilled Mark's hips and pulled slightly away. Beyond the heaving breaths they were both taking in, and the searing, almost angry question of _why? Why did you stop, _Mark tried to assess what had happened. He took in Roger's state, dilated pupils, flushed skin, and face filled with uncertainty.

Mark knew that all he had to do was to push a little more, and Roger would probably give in and pick up where they left off. But he could see that the uncertainty in Roger's eyes was different than it had been the times before. He knew Mark wanted this. But Roger wasn't sure if _he_ was quite ready for it. Mark didn't want to push Roger into anything when Roger had been so patient with him.

With a sigh that attempted to drain all his frustration, Mark leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Roger's forehead. It seemed to jolt the guitarist out of the frozen state he'd been in.

"Jesus, Mark, I–"

"I know," Mark cut him off. "It's okay. I understand."

"I love you," Roger told him, rubbing his hands up and down Mark's back soothingly. It was actually doing a lot to help him calm down.

"Love you, too," Mark replied, his stomach twisting at the look of relief and happiness that flowed over Roger's face.

"Um… sorry," Roger said as Mark climbed off him, sitting next to him and holding his hand instead of snuggling up to him. They both needed a while to come down from that, and the close contact wouldn't help.

"It's fine. Nothing to be sorry for," Mark reassured him, surprised to find he meant it.

They watched the rest of the movie in companionable silence, Roger giving his hand a squeeze every so often. Every time he did, a gentle smile stole over Mark's face.

They were almost there.

* * *

_3 days later, 11:49 pm: _

The lock clicked open loudly, and Roger stepped into his apartment, Mark close on his heels. The filmmaker was laughing so hard that he could barely walk straight. It was a good thing to see. Roger had missed Mark's laugh, but thank God he'd almost been getting an overdose of it the past month. Roger never knew that someone's laugh could be almost as addictive as heroin.

"Seriously," Mark gasped out, and Roger wrapped supporting arms around him from behind. "Did you _see_ the look on his face?"

Mark leaned into him, accepting the support, and craned his neck to look at Roger. The guitarist had rested his chin on Mark's shoulder, so they nearly bumped noses. Roger took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss.

"Yeah," he answered belatedly. "Maybe Chris is onto something. I thought he was crazy, but… that reaction was just a _little _too strong, if you know what I mean."

They were referring to a few minutes ago, when everyone had been getting ready to leave the restaurant. Blake had been his usual self, boasting about his newest conquest he was planning on meeting up with tonight. He'd just been explaining her finer attributes, when Chris had let out a long-suffering sigh and said, "Shut up, you queen." It had seemed a simple barb at first, but the way Blake had completely freaked out, sputtering and turning bright-red under his dark skin had led everyone in the room to similar conclusions. And Christian's meaningful glance in Roger's direction hadn't been lost on the guitarist. Nor had the triumphant, "I was _sooo_ right," grin.

"Uh-huh," Mark mumbled, leaning into Roger a little more. "I think Chris is rubbing off on me. I would never be so amused by something like this before." Roger chuckled.

"He must have helped you tap into your inner gay," he suggested.

Mark let out a short laugh.

"Mmm… something like that, I guess."

Roger pulled back, taking Mark's hand and leading him into the kitchen. The filmmaker immediately took his designated spot, jumping up and sitting on the counter. His feet dangled, bumping into the cupboards underneath. Roger flipped on his coffee-maker, pulling out a couple mugs.

This had become almost routine for them. Whenever they came back to one of their apartments after a date or a night out with friends, they'd always head to the kitchen, make coffee, and talk until they felt like going to sleep. On nights like this, it was usually an unspoken decision that Mark or Roger would be staying over, depending on whose apartment they headed to. The regularity of it was… kind of nice really.

It was doing a lot to calm Roger's nerves. Despite Christian's reassurance, he still felt a strong amount of trepidation at what he planned on doing. It felt almost exactly the same as it had that day he'd been in the hospital, itching in a borrowed tux, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He looked up when the coffee-maker started to bubble and Mark smiled at him.

"Hey," he said, looking a little nervous himself. "Uh… it's been a month today, you know… and, well… here."

Mark jumped off the counter and pushed a small piece of paper into Roger's hand. His own hand was shaking a little, and it was so unsure, so typical Mark, that Roger couldn't help but smile. He looked down at the card Mark had given him. It was a business card with a name and number Roger didn't recognize.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Well, I wasn't really sure what to get you… so I went with something I knew you could use," Mark answered, still looking a little nervous. "He's a friend of mine… A really good director. He's done some music videos for Guns N' Roses and one for the Rolling Stones. I talked to him about the Well Hungarians, and he seemed really interested. Told me to have you or your manager give him a call. Beth also said she'd let you use the studio to shoot, free of charge, as long as you scheduled a time with her first."

Roger was stunned. They'd just started talking about shooting a music video, anyway, and while they had more resources available since they'd been signed to Capitol, this was a huge help. Mark must have called in at least a couple favors. And if Mark said this director was good, that wasn't empty praise. The idea that Mark would do something like this for him…

Roger pulled the filmmaker into a hug after pocketing the card. Mark immediately returned it, letting out an almost inaudible sigh. Roger grinned, pulled back slightly and kissed him, taking a few long moments to re-learn the taste of the filmmaker's mouth, making Mark shudder when he traced his tongue along the roof. He broke the kiss only to nuzzle behind Mark's ear briefly. Mark laughed and hugged him tighter.

"I take it you like it, then?" he asked. Roger bit down slightly and Mark gasped.

"Mmmhmm," he hummed, leaning back and kissing Mark on the cheek. "Thanks."

They both jumped when the coffee-maker let out a particularly loud gurgle. When they realized what it was, they shared a smile, and Roger pulled Mark with him, sitting down at the kitchen table and dragging Mark onto his lap. They sat in companionable silence for a minute or two, Mark's fingers threading through Roger's hair as Roger rubbed his hands up and down Mark's sides. Mark sighed slightly.

"How come I always end up sitting on your lap?" he questioned, pushing a strand of hair away from Roger's eyes. Roger considered for a moment.

"Well, I weigh more than you," he stated, grinning at Mark's slight frown.

"I guess, but… it makes me feel like I'm the girl." Roger's grin widened.

"Baby, no one could mistake you for a girl," he assured, making his point by running a hand lightly over Mark's chest.

Mark blushed as Roger's hand trailed lower, skimming over his stomach, playing with the bottom of his shirt. He slipped his fingers underneath, rubbing that fine trail of hair that led down from Mark's belly-button. Mark gasped, his eyes snapping shut, and Roger's hand started to move a little lower…

The timer on the coffee-maker beeped loudly. Mark's eyes opened and he jumped off of Roger's lap even as the guitarist let out a soft curse. Mark just smiled and poured them both a mug, handing one to Roger and sitting in the chair next to him. He let out an amused snort when Roger grumbled into his drink. Roger hissed when he burned his tongue by taking a sip too soon.

After waiting a few minutes for his drink to cool down, Roger took another sip. He glanced up at Mark as the filmmaker took a sip himself. His mind raced, trying to come up with a way to bring up his own gift. He couldn't believe he was still so nervous. Just the thought of it made his hands shake slightly. He should have brought it up earlier, when Mark had given him the card. Now he had no idea how to start. He looked up to see Mark raising an eyebrow at him.

"What's up?" he asked. "You've been acting kind of jittery all evening. Something wrong?"

And there was that adorably concerned look on Mark's face. The one that always made Roger's heart thump loudly in his chest. Dammit. He wanted an opening, here it was.

"Well…I was just trying to…" he trailed off. Mark didn't interrupt, but just let him collect himself, looking on expectantly.

With a shaky exhale, Roger stood up and put his mug down on the table. He walked over to where Mark was sitting and crouched down, setting his hands on the filmmaker's thighs. He took a moment to search confused blue eyes with his green ones. Mark leaned forward slightly, threading his hands with Roger's and squeezing encouragingly.

"Like you said, it's been a month," Roger started. He leaned up and brushed their lips together briefly. "I love you, Mark. Every day I love you more." Mark blushed slightly, but moved his hands up and placed them around Roger's neck in a loose embrace.

"Love you too, Roger." Roger smiled. It never got old hearing it.

"I should tell you… I've never been happy like this my whole life… I… I want to spend the rest of it with you… and…" Shit. Here was the hard part. "Well, seriously… if I… bought you a ring, would you wear it?" he blurted out, mentally giving himself a kick in the butt. Way to be romantic.

Mark didn't seem to notice. His eyes had widened almost comically, and his arms had tightened around Roger's shoulders.

"What?" he whispered incredulously.

"Well…here."

Roger reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small box. He opened it, revealing two identical rings, both gold with silver etching weaved onto the bands. He took the first one and put it on his own left ring-finger, then took Mark's hand in his own, waiting for permission. Mark could only give a slight nod as he seemed to have lost his voice. Roger smiled and slipped the ring onto Mark's left hand. With a choked sound, Mark moved off the chair to kneel in front of Roger. At the same time, they reached out for each other, and Mark buried his face in Roger's neck.

"Thank you," he whispered, the sound muffled, but Roger heard him anyway. "I love you so much, Roger."

"Love you too," Roger whispered back, a huge grin on his face. "And you're welcome, baby."

Mark let out a short laugh and leaned back. Roger felt like he would just burst with all the affection he felt for the filmmaker swarming in his chest. How did Mark manage to make him feel this way?

He figured it was a moot point, leaning forward and capturing Mark's lips in a slow kiss. Mark immediately responded, wrapping his arms more tightly around Roger and pushing against him. They took a few long moments and kissed leisurely, lips caressing softly against one another. When Mark started licking at Roger's lips, though, everything seemed to go into overdrive.

Roger immediately opened his mouth. Their tongues glided wetly against each other, and Roger pulled Mark even closer, gathering the filmmaker into his lap. Mark kneeled over him, a knee on either side. Their hands darted everywhere over each other. With one hand, Roger squeezed Mark's hip, holding him in place while the other grabbed at his ass, teasing and rubbing. Mark moaned into his mouth, his own hands stopping their trek along Roger's torso to tangle in his hair, holding his head in place while he thrust his tongue into Roger's mouth.

Everything dissolved into heat. Roger loved it when Mark got a little more dominating like this, and Mark loved to be pushed to the point where he couldn't hold back anymore. Mark pulled back and Roger nearly whimpered at the loss. Then their eyes met, silent questions asked and answered. Then without further preliminary, Roger ripped his leather jacket off, hearing it skid across the kitchen floor after he threw it. He was about to reach down for his shirt, but Mark beat him to it, pulling it over his head and off. Roger returned the favor, and then they collapsed against each other again, both of them hissing into the kiss as the naked skin of their chests rubbed together.

Jesus, they were making out on Roger's kitchen floor, and Roger really didn't give a shit. Neither did Mark, if the panting gasps and trembling was any indication. Roger pulled back from the kiss with an audible smack and started mouthing at Mark's exposed collarbone. That got him more gasps in response, so he slid his tongue up, nibbling, biting and licking at the spot where shoulder met neck. He'd discovered in the past month that it was a particularly sensitive spot for Mark, and the groan the filmmaker let out only confirmed what he already knew.

The hand caressing Mark's hip moved, sliding to the front of Mark's jeans. Mark's hips thrust forward sharply and Mark pulled Roger's head up into another kiss. When Roger's hand finally came to rest on Mark's trapped erection, he gave a short squeeze. Mark moaned into the kiss and bit down on Roger's lower lip. Then Roger started kneading him through his jeans, and Mark pulled out of the kiss with another loud moan.

"Jesus… _fuck… _Roger!"

For his own part, Roger was so turned on by Mark's moans and curses he could barely breathe. Mark's hips started moving into his hand, and it had been way too long since they'd last done anything like this. Why in the hell had he ever wanted them to wait? He knew that now he was getting another taste of it, he'd never be able to get enough. Mark was a fucking drug.

After a few minutes of kneading at Mark's crotch, the filmmaker abruptly pulled his hand away. Roger was about to ask what was wrong, but Mark just caught him in another kiss. He started grinding their hips together, and holy _shit_ that was so much better. Roger was sure he'd fall backwards on the floor any second now, and if he'd been standing up, he was sure his legs would've buckled. Mark leaned down and latched onto a nipple, sucking and biting. The sensation sent a bolt of arousal to Roger's groin. He tossed his head back, panting, and bucked up into Mark harder.

They moved together like that for a few long moments, Mark's hands rubbing all over his torso, Roger's hands kneading at Mark's ass and pulling him down harder. It only took a few seconds for Roger to realize that if they kept this up he was going to come in his pants, on his kitchen floor with Mark on top of him. Which wasn't necessarily a _bad_ thing, he made a mental note to experience it sometime in the near future, but for now, he wanted to do more.

He slowed them down, feeling shocks of pleasure still spiking through him. Mark was in a similar state, and he had the added sensation of feeling like his skin was too tight. They were both panting, a light sheen of sweat covering exposed skin. Mark whimpered when they stopped completely, and Roger let out a groan.

"Bedroom," Roger whispered harshly to Mark's questioning look. He nearly collapsed at the heated stare Mark gave him then, and he realized he was shuddering slightly.

"Good call," Mark gasped back, standing up and pulling Roger with him. They stumbled into the bedroom, and if they were in any other situation, Roger would have found it funny that they didn't even seem to be able to walk straight. They both fell onto the bed, and Roger stretched himself half on top of Mark, tangling their legs together.

They kissed slowly again, Mark rubbing his hands up and down Roger's back, tracing the bumps of his spine while Roger used one hand to caress up and down Mark's side. Mark did some particularly wicked things with his tongue, wrapping it around Roger's and pulling it into his mouth to suck on it. Roger pulled back with a slight gasp.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked when he'd gathered the breath to do so.

"I don't really care," Mark muttered. "But whatever we do, the next thing has got to be what does it. I'm about to come as it is." Roger's eyes snapped shut and he shivered. He knew Mark was really to-the-point about stuff, but _Jesus.

* * *

_Okay. Obviously, this is where I felt it was good to cut. Even though I probably should've cut earlier, but meh, you can all deal with it. Who wouldn't want to read the smut anyway? Yeah, that's what I thought.

You can find the rest here:

http(dotdotslashslash) community. livejournal. com / (underscore)rentfic/ 414813. html # cutid1

I had to (parenthasize) some of the symbols, because apparently FF doesn't allow them in fanfic.Or something. Just translate it to normal coding.

And take out the spaces, yo.

Of course, if that bugs you, just look in my profile. I'll post the unabridged link there.

* * *

The only thing he knew for sure right now was that he wanted Mark in his arms. He pulled Mark close to him, kissing him slowly while they cooled off, tongues and teeth meeting without the heat behind it, but a warm affection. Finally, Mark pulled back a little and placed a chaste kiss to the edge of his mouth. 

"Wow," he murmured, rubbing his hands over Roger's cooling chest, feeling the crinkle of the hair under his fingers.

"I think that sums it up," Roger agreed, biting back a yawn and pulling the covers up over them. He glanced at the clock. It was past two in the morning.

Mark snuggled into him, tangling their legs together and resting his head on Roger's chest. Roger's arms wrapped tightly around his waist, and he nuzzled at the top of Mark's head.

"Love you," Mark whispered, his left hand shifting a little as he felt the ring still there.

"Love you too, baby," Roger replied, a smile on his face, eyes drooping.

Mark placed one more kiss on Roger's lips, then settled down for sleep, listening to their breathing lengthen. Right before he dropped off, he couldn't help but ask,

"You're still gonna be here tomorrow, right?"

Roger tightened his grip even more, rubbing at the small of Mark's back.

"Mark, there's no way you'll ever be able to get rid of me after this."

They drifted off to sleep, gentle smiles playing on their faces.

They'd finally come home.

* * *

Teehee. There you are. One more chapter to go, and then the one-shots. Looking forward to writing them. Review for me, bitches! XD 


	15. Epilogue

Okay, so I was really, really late getting this out. I'm sorry. It's just... this is the last chapter... and maybe I didn't want it to end.. :sobs: Naw, that was a blatant lie. I was just a lazy bastard. Anyways, I finished, and here is the EPILOGUE. Wow. It's been a long, strange ride. Thank you all so much for reading. Don't worry, it's not completely over, as there are still those one-shots for you to look forward to. Or not.

In any case, I've left you a gift at the end of this chapter. A little extra something I did, because I'm a loser. I'll put it in at the end.

Enjoy.

* * *

_5 weeks later: _

Roger looked over to where Mark was laying, sprawled out on their bed. He smiled at the thought. _Their _bed, as it had been for a week now. It hadn't taken Mark long to broach the subject of moving in together. It made sense because, after all, as Mark had put it, "We're already used to being roommates anyway." Roger had loved how Mark had blushed when he'd replied, "Yeah…it's exactly the same. Except for all the sex."

So they'd spent a few weeks searching for a new apartment, bigger than either of their old ones and close enough to both the recording studio and the headquarters of Vivre. Roger was surprised they'd been able to find one in their price-range, but he guessed it helped that Christian had obscene amounts of connections in LA. He'd pretty much found the apartment for them, even handed them the key with a slightly sad shake of his head. Roger was almost positive it was Chris's way of letting Mark go for good. The man was a complete contradiction. Incredibly selfish one moment and insanely selfless the next.

Roger figured it was long overdue for him and Mark to be sharing an apartment again. It had been over two years since Roger had moved out of the loft back in New York. He hoped that one day they'd return, as shitty a place to live as it was. They had a lot of history there, and he'd hate to turn his back on it indefinitely. Besides, it was where his entire journey had started; it seemed fitting that that's where it should end.

He'd always thought that the loft would be 'home' to him, but he'd come to realize in those months after Mark had left that home was wherever Mark was. And the past week had shown how right that thought had been. He'd never felt safer than he felt in those quiet moments before Mark's alarm went off, wrapped in the filmmaker's arms, seeing his calm face outlined in the twilight before dawn. Of course, he couldn't help his reaction to when Mark woke up, all rumpled with sleep, glaring at the alarm, looking so fucking _cute. _It was entirely Mark's fault that they kept barely making it to work on time.

Mark was glaring up at the ceiling with the same look he often gave the alarm, only this one was slightly less tired. His brow was furrowed, lips pursed. Roger sighed. Mark was thinking too hard again. He tended to do that.

"Stop it," he grumbled, flopping down next to Mark, then pulling him up against his side. Mark's eyes widened slightly. He probably hadn't even realized Roger was in the room.

"Stop what?" he hedged, burrowing a little closer and wrapping his arms around Roger's chest. Roger moved so that they lay side to side, and looked into Mark's face.

"You're worrying about it. I thought we'd settled all this earlier. They're expecting me to call in a few minutes."

"I know… it's just… kind of weird, I guess. I'm wondering if I should have asked you not to tell them when you'd found me. This is gonna be awkward. 'Hi, I know it's been over a year since I abandoned you all, but through some fucking crazy coincidence here I am, living with Roger again, only this time we're sleeping in the same bed. How've you been?'" Mark practiced the imaginary conversation, and Roger snorted.

"They'll probably be more pissed off at me for not letting them know I'd found you. And they understood you had to leave, Mark. At least Joanne did. Maureen was kind of emotional about it. And anyway, I thought we said we weren't going to tell them about us until we could meet them in person. Let's take one step at a time." Mark sighed.

"Yeah, I know, you're right," he grumbled. "I know it's time I let them know I'm not dead. I'm just having trouble getting over the irony that Maureen left me for a woman, and now I'm, in effect, jumping on the bandwagon. She's totally gonna want to take credit for this."

"Maureen Johnson, creator of the new craze to turn queer. Gay is the new black," Roger said with a grin. Mark laughed. "I'm sure Chris would get a kick out of covering that story."

"Don't you dare mention it to him. He might actually do it just to mess with me."

"Not a word," Roger promised, then tilted Mark's head up and gave him a short kiss. Mark pressed into him, but Roger pulled away before any tongue got involved; that was always enough to distract him, and he couldn't let Mark be distracting right now. "Well, we've got a phone call to make." Roger squirmed out of Mark's arms and stood up, offering his hand. "Now get your scrawny ass out of bed." Mark smiled and took his hand.

"I thought you liked my scrawny ass," he teased, pressing up against Roger when the guitarist helped him up. Roger swallowed and stepped away.

"Nice try, but no changing the subject." He walked out into the kitchen and grabbed the phone off the hook. "Besides, we've got two hot lesbians waiting breathlessly for our phone call. What guy wouldn't jump at that opportunity?" he asked with a chuckle as he dialed the number on the calling-card he'd pulled out of his pocket. Mark groaned.

"I have got to stop letting you hang around with Chris so much. He's infecting you with his sense of humor." Roger just smiled.

"You want to do the honors?" he asked when the automated voice asked Roger to please enter the area code and number. Mark looked a little nervous, but he punched in the long-since memorized number anyway. After a few rings, the phone clicked on.

"'Hello?" chimed Maureen's cheery voice. Roger smiled.

"Hey, Maureen. It's me."

"Oh, good! Joanne and I were wondering if you'd call today! Let me get her." She must have put the phone down, but Roger heard her, "JOANNE! ROGER'S ON THE PHONE!" as clear as if she'd screamed it into his ear. He winced. Mark grinned.

There was a bit of a shuffling sound, but then Roger heard a beep as the other phone in their apartment clicked on. Joanne's greeting was cut-off when Maureen got back to her phone and asked if everyone was on.

"Yeah, we're all three of us here, Maureen," Roger replied. "Joanne was just saying hi."

"Oh, sorry, Pookie! I didn't mean to interrupt," Maureen said. Joanne sighed.

"It's fine, Maureen. How've you been, Roger? Last time we talked to you was six weeks ago. We were starting to get worried." Roger ignored the small amount of guilt he felt at that. They had left a few messages on his cell phone, but he hadn't gotten around to calling them back. Before he'd left, he'd told Maureen and Joanne he'd try to call them every other Sunday around 3 p.m. their time. The past month he'd been so busy getting things ready for the move that he'd forgotten. Otherwise he'd surprised both them and himself by being pretty good about calling.

"Ah, sorry. I was busy. I was moving into a new apartment."

"New apartment? What was wrong with your old one?" Maureen asked. Jesus. Never could work up to things with her. Better to just come out and say it.

"Well, that's the thing. I ended up getting a…_roommate_. Since there's two of us, we wanted a bigger place, and with two people going in on rent, it's affordable now."

Maureen seemed to accept that, but Joanne caught the slight pause and strange inflection on the word 'roommate'.

"Roommate? Not a new girlfriend, Rog?" she asked, her tone slightly teasing. Roger's eyes widened. Damn. That's what you get for trying to lie to a lawyer. Maureen gasped and cut him off before he could answer.

"Oh my GOD, that would be so good for you, Rog!" she squealed. "It really is time you moved on and found someone new." Joanne and Roger both winced. She meant well, but Maureen never was very tactful. Roger coughed.

"Well, actually, not a girlfriend," he offered.

"Oh," Maureen said. She sounded a little disappointed. "Well, what's this guy's name?" she asked. "Where'd you meet him?" Here came the tricky part.

"Actually, we met up at one of my concerts about three months ago." Shit, it seemed insane that Mark and him had been together again for such a short amount of time. "I was surprised to see him there. I'd known him before that… for a long time, actually." He looked over at Mark and gestured at the phone questioningly, mouthing the word, "Ready?" Mark nodded, exhaling shakily. "Listen, why don't I put him on, and you guys can talk to him for a bit."

"Uh… okay?" Maureen stammered. He could just see the confused look on her face. "But… what's his name, Roger? You haven't even really introduced us and…"

"Just… let him talk to you," Roger cut her off, and handed the phone to Mark. He moved behind the filmmaker and wrapped his arms around his waist. Mark sighed slightly and leaned into the support. He needed it. Poor guy looked about ready to fall over he was so nervous. Roger rubbed a thumb soothingly up and down on his stomach, then kissed his temple.

"That's your cue," he whispered into Mark's ear when he froze. Mark stiffened a little in his arms and held the phone closer to his mouth. He cleared his throat into the receiver.

"Uh… hey, guys," he started, his voice a little shaky. Roger leaned in on the other side of the phone, and Mark tilted it so he could hear.

"…Mark?" Joanne asked, her voice coming out a little choked.

"Yeah… it's me. How… how have you two been?" Roger mentally counted down: 3, 2, 1…

They both jumped back from the phone at the shriek that pierced through their eardrums. Roger was fairly certain that even without the phone they would've heard Maureen all the way from New York.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Maureen screamed after she'd taken a deep breath. "Oh my GOD, where the HELL have you been! Why the FUCK are you with Roger! What the HELL is going on! How ARE you!" Her questions came through rapid-fire, but Roger could still hear the smile in them, underneath all the freak-out.

"Well, the thing is…" Mark started.

Roger pulled over a chair, sitting down on it and drawing Mark into his lap as the filmmaker started to recount everything that had happened the past year. Mark squeezed one of Roger's arms wrapped around his waist and laced their fingers together, a silent thank you for the support. Roger just hugged him tighter and craned his neck to kiss Mark's cheek.

Three hours later, Mark hung up the phone with a weary sigh, then stretched to get the kinks out. Roger stood up and did the same.

"Jesus. Sorry that took so long. I didn't get too heavy, did I?" Roger just smiled and pulled Mark into his arms again.

"Nah," he said, bending down for a kiss. Mark smacked him lightly on the back of the head and pulled away with a laugh.

"Could you manage to keep your hands off me for two seconds?" he asked with a grin. Roger smiled back.

"Nope," he stated succinctly, grabbing Mark and catching his lips in a kiss before he could protest again. He deepened it slowly, tracing over Mark's teeth languidly before tangling their tongues together. A few moments later, he pulled back, noting with satisfaction the way Mark's blue eyes were hooded behind his glasses, the way he was panting slightly. Shit, they'd been together for more than two months, but he never seemed to get tired of that look on Mark's face. He didn't think he ever would.

"I don't think you want me to keep my hands off of you anyway," Roger commented. Mark smirked.

"God, I hate that I seem to be so fucking transparent when I'm around you," he griped, but pulled Roger a little closer anyway.

"You're transparent to anyone who takes the time to really look," Roger teased. "You did great with them. I'm really proud of you, baby." Mark snorted.

"Yeah, well, you probably gathered from the one side of the conversation you heard, but Maureen was really unhappy that I'd waited so long to call them. Joanne seemed a little more understanding, but they both were pretty pissed at first."

"They were just worried," Roger assured him. "So, when are they coming to visit?" Mark sighed.

"We've got two weeks to figure out how we're gonna tell them about us so that Maureen doesn't explode on the spot. It was gonna be a month, but Maureen was being her typical overbearing self and insisting they get on the next flight out, and Joanne said it would only take a little shuffling on her part to get here sooner."

"Two weeks… hmmm… wonder how we'll manage to find something to do until they get here," Roger mused.

Mark's only warning was a slight tensing of muscles, and before he could do anything, Roger had lifted him up and slung him over his shoulder. He let out a cry of surprise, and struggled a little before he realized they were headed into the bedroom.

"You are such an ass," he muttered, a smile lighting his face in spite of himself. Roger patted him on the rump, then tossed him unceremoniously onto the bed.

"That's the idea, Marky," he said with a grin before he pounced.

Somewhere in between the incoherent thoughts and half-voiced pleas of the next hour, Mark managed to become fairly certain that the next two weeks would pass by pretty quickly.

* * *

_Two weeks later: _

Chris pulled his shades off when the light faded upon entering the building. He was instantaneously accosted with the loud thumps and clacks of luggage on tile, voices bouncing with a tinny echo off the walls, the droning hum of escalators and moving sidewalks underneath it all. He fucking hated airports. Throngs of humanity scrambling around carrying all the things most precious to them in bags made out of polyester and dead animals, like so many ants.

Thankfully, Chris was lucky to be counted a god among insects.

He looked to see Roger tugging Mark over towards the huge screen with all the flight information ticking across it. Their hands were laced together, and when Mark finally caught up to him, Roger slung an arm over his shoulders. Chris smiled. Even he had to admit they made a really cute couple. He sighed. It made him feel a little like the third wheel, and this wasn't a Goddamn tricycle.

"This way," Roger announced after staring at the screen for a few minutes. Chris took one glance at it and grabbed the back of Roger's jacket before he could go too far.

"Slow down, boy," he chuckled. "I believe the correct direction you were looking for is over there." He pointed with a smirk, in the exact opposite direction Roger had been heading.

"Are you sure?" Roger asked, squinting at the board suspiciously. Chris rolled his eyes.

"No. I've just lived here for over ten years and have been to the Los Angeles International Airport at least three times every year of those ten years. And since you obviously have a perfect sense of direction, we should follow you and possibly miss your wonderful friends who are due to arrive in," Chris paused and glanced at the flight times, "approximately 20 minutes." Roger glared. Chris just smiled.

"Okay, we get it, Christian," Mark grumbled with a slight smirk. "You're always right."

"Always right? Now whoever told you that?" Chris asked, feigning innocent shock.

"You did. Several times."

"Ah. So I did. And what do you know, I was right in that statement too!" He laughed and headed towards the correct terminal, knowing that Mark and Roger followed just behind him.

"You are such an ass," Roger growled. Chris glanced over his shoulder.

"Proud of it. You know you love me anyway." That got him the scowl he'd been looking for. He grinned and kept walking, missing when Roger's scowl dissolved into a small smile of his own.

It didn't take them long to get there, with all the sections of moving sidewalk. Once they were finally there, Chris plopped down in the nearest chair. He pulled out his sunglasses and put them on again, glancing over when Mark and Roger took a seat beside him.

"Why are you wearing your sunglasses inside?" Mark asked, eyebrow raised. "Adding to your image?"

"Partially, yes," Chris admitted. "Mostly it's so I can study the masses without them realizing it. It's interesting to watch people when they aren't aware you're doing it."

So saying, he stretched out his legs and took a relaxed position, staring intently at the people swarming around in the sitting area. Roger and Mark both gave him a quizzical look, but started talking quietly to one another after a bit. Chris was satisfied when the small pang of jealousy went practically unnoticed. He hoped that in a few weeks the feeling and similar ones would be gone completely.

Roger and Mark were good together. He had to face facts. And he was facing them. He could honestly say he was as over Mark as he could ever expect to be. Sometimes it still hurt a little, sure, but knowing that Mark was happy was enough. It even surprised him that he was pleased Roger was happy as well. He'd come to respect and like the man much more than he ever thought he could, especially after that whole incident a little under three months ago. It didn't mean he wasn't above poking fun at the guitarist's expense now and again. But their cool tolerance of each other had warmed and changed into an honest to God real friendship. Chris didn't have many of those, and it was nice to know that he was big enough to connect that way with the man who'd basically stolen the affections of the love of his life.

Not that he could ever blame Roger for it, even if it was tempting to. After all, he could bitch, moan and feel sorry for himself all he wanted, but at the end of the day Mark was still going to be sleeping in Roger's bed. Chris much preferred moving on, even if it was slightly painful.

He sighed. Part of him knew he would always love Mark that way, but it was a part of him he could control, a part of him he could ignore until he found someone else to fill that spot in his life. And even if he did find someone else, he knew he'd always have a special spot in his heart for the filmmaker.

There he went with the sappy thoughts again. Really. He needed to get a grip on himself. He looked around, pausing his gaze on a group of tourists smiling and snapping photos before they'd even left the airport. Over to the left he watched a little boy play with some toy trucks, ramming one repeatedly into his father's shoe. An older man sat reading a newspaper, his breath wheezing in and out through a thick gray mustache.

He spent the next few minutes making similar observations. When he'd exhausted all of the interesting subjects in sight, he turned to look at his companions. They were huddled close together, foreheads almost touching, holding hands, still talking in hushed tones. He held back a snort. It would be obvious to a blind man that the two idiots were madly in love. He half expected them to just snap and start ripping each other's clothes off any second.

"Sooo…" he trailed, breaking into their realm where only the two of them existed, "you said you wanted me to keep quiet about you being together until you could find the right time to inform them? Hate to break it to you, kiddies, but if you keep carrying on like _that_ they'll know something's up before they step off the plane." Mark blushed. Roger looked alternately confused and offended. Chris smiled. It looked good on him.

"Well, I figured we'd tone it down a bit when they got here," Mark said, glancing at Roger pleadingly. Roger sighed.

"Yeah, I guess we'll have to," he admitted. Then he smiled. "Even if we didn't, I'm sure Joanne would notice, but you know Maureen. She's blinded to everything that doesn't immediately have to do with her. She'd probably be completely oblivious." Mark laughed.

"Oh, c'mon, even she isn't _that _obtuse."

"Well, unless we started making out in front of her or something…" Roger trailed, leaning closer to Mark. Chris laughed.

"I never pegged you for an exhibitionist, Roger Davis," he admitted. "Kinky. You continue to surprise me. I can't believe you'd indulge in such degenerate behavior." Mark snorted.

"Sure, sure," Roger said with a wicked smile. "You know you just want to watch." Mark let out a choked sound and blushed again, turning a glare on his boyfriend. Chris chuckled.

"I didn't know I was so easy to read," he allowed, smirking when Mark let out another indignant noise and hunched into his chair, almost as if he was trying to disappear into the cushion. "However, I do believe we're embarrassing poor Marky, here. If he turns any redder I'm afraid he might explode." Roger started to reply, but Mark cut him off.

"_Don't_ even _think_ what you were about to say!" he snapped.

"Aww, it wasn't anything _bad_, Mark," Roger whined. "You're the one with the dirty mind here." Mark let out an exasperated huff.

"What is this, pick on Mark day? You guys are totally ganging up on me!" Chris grinned at that and opened his mouth only to have Mark snap a hand over it. The filmmaker pushed his other hand up against Roger's mouth for good measure when it looked like he was about to say something too. Chris was sure they made a very odd picture.

"Chill, you two," Mark growled in what was supposed to be a stern voice. It came out sounding like he was a chihuahua snapping at two pit bulls. They both nodded anyway and Mark lowered his hands.

"How much longer 'til they get here?" Roger asked to change the conversation. Mark looked over at him gratefully.

"Should be any minute now," he said after glancing at his watch.

"Remind me again why you wanted me to come?" Chris asked. "I really don't see why you needed three people to pick them up." Roger and Mark glanced at each other, then Mark turned back to his friend.

"Christian, you're just as much a part of our family now as they are," he said, then winced. "Sorry, that was cheesy… but, you know what I mean. We want them to get to know you, and we want you to be with us when we show them around. After all, who knows this city better than you?"

Christian's eyes widened. He was honestly startled by Mark's words. They really cared about him that much… not just Mark, but both of them? It was… a little overwhelming to say the least. Chris would absolutely _never _admit that his throat was tightening up, his chest swelling a little. Roger grinned.

"Holy shit, Chris is shocked speechless. It's the end of the world." Chris snapped out of it and punched the guitarist in the shoulder. He was about to reply when Mark jumped up.

"Look, guys, their flight's arrived," he pointed out. Sure enough, there were people streaming out of the terminal. Chris wondered how they'd missed the announcement of the arrival. Oh, well. He took a place on Mark's left, Roger on the filmmaker's right.

He knew who Maureen and Joanne were the minute he saw them. They were both quite lovely, if you were into the fairer sex, he supposed. They were bickering over their carry-on luggage. Joanne would be the one in the stylish but modest suit, and Maureen must be the one wearing heels sharp enough to snap bones, leather pants, a provocative top and bright red lipstick. The minute she saw Mark and Roger, she dropped her luggage and ran over, sweeping the filmmaker into a hug as she burst into tears. Huh. The girl didn't do anything half-way, did she?

Joanne had hung back slightly, but she looked no less excited to see Mark, and when he'd passed Maureen off to Roger, she pulled him into a slightly more subdued hug, relief apparent in every line of her body. After a moment or two, Mark nodded over to Chris and made introductions.

With his most charming smile, Chris stepped forward to greet the two women. His life was probably about to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

_The next day: _

Mark's gaze shot back and forth like he was at a tennis match. He stopped for a moment and saw that Joanne was doing the same thing. Jesus. They'd been going at it for at least a half an hour now. He'd realized that both Maureen and Christian loved to be the center of attention, but this was getting ridiculous.

"–so _that's _how my second performance protesting the corruption in New York's fire-fighting system incited–"

"Don't tell me, a full-scale revolution of the bourgeoisie? Please. Now, you want a _protest_, you should have been there when some of my girls and I single handedly–"

"Ah, ah, ah! Not single handedly if you had friends to help. I've always done my protests all by myself." That was a blatant lie, Mark thought, and Joanne gave him an aggrieved stare.

"Semantics. Of course I spear-headed the operation. It was nothing less than a _massive_–"

"You want massive, you should've been there at my protest for the 11th street lot rezoning. There was a _riot_ after that. Which wasn't really my fault, but I suppose I inspired everyone to–"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it was your passion alone that got them all worked up. But didn't you just admit it wasn't really your fault? You can't have it both ways, my dear."

"Mark!" Maureen suddenly turned to him, the first time either of them had acknowledged any one else during the entire conversation. "You were there. You even filmed it and got it on the news, remember? I'm sure if you told him how I inspired all those people, he'd believe you. My performance was incredible that night, wasn't it?" she prompted him.

"I–" Mark started.

"Really? Incredible? Don't be so modest," Christian cut him off with the sarcastic comment. "Besides, don't you think you should let Mark pick his own adjectives?" He'd thrown in similar barbs before, as had Maureen, but it didn't seem to bother them. They were both almost glowing they were enjoying themselves so much.

"I was just stating a fact. Besides, Mark's never been good with adjectives," Maureen explained. Mark frowned.

"But–"

"That's where I'd have to disagree," Christian interrupted him again. "I'm sure he's intelligent enough to come up with an ample description."

"Hey–"

"That's not really the point, is it?" Maureen asked. She turned to Mark again. "Tell him, Mark."

"What–"

"Really, I don't see how this will make your case. What do you think, Mark?" Christian finally turned to him as well, and for the first time there was an actual pause in the conversation.

"I think you're both insane," Mark stated conclusively after a moment. Joanne started to chuckle, and after a second or two, Christian joined in. Maureen just looked mildly confused and offended and mumbled something along the lines of, "I don't see what's so funny." Christian grinned and patted her on the shoulder.

"Ah, don't feel bad, honey. I think we just got a little carried away," he explained. "It's been a fabulous talk, though, really. I haven't met someone who could keep up with me like that in years." Maureen smiled.

"You're just lucky Mark managed to derail you. I was winning." Christian opened his mouth, but Mark cut him off with a laugh.

"Enough, you guys!" Christian snapped his mouth closed and lowered his head slightly.

"Fine, fine. Maureen, my dear, I suggest we have a nice long chat later when we don't have a bored Mark and Joanne to entertain at the same time." He stooped and grabbed Maureen's hand, placing a small kiss on the back and grinning wickedly.

Maureen shot a similar smile right back at him. Joanne frowned.

"Chris, I swear to God, if you weren't–" she began.

"Gayer than a box of birds?" Christian cut her off. "Yes, I know. Rest assured all flirting is harmless and on an intellectual level only." Maureen looked over at her lover, her face melting into an exaggerated pout.

"Aw, Pookie, you're always so jealous! We were just talking!" she protested, pulling Joanne into her arms and making a kissy-face. Joanne sighed, exasperated, but pecked her on the lips anyway.

Mark smiled. It surprised him how easily they'd all slipped back into their old routines now that they were together again. Even in a completely different setting, Maureen and Joanne were still Maureen and Joanne. It was comforting in a way.

He couldn't help feeling like everything was finally right with the world, like things were finally how they should be. He realized it had been killing him to stay away from his friends for so long. He'd worried about the two girls more than he thought he would, and it was nice to see they were happy and… somewhat functional.

Last night Maureen and Joanne had been too tired from the trip to really do much of anything, but they'd all spent a couple hours at a café talking. After that, they'd headed back to their hotel, where Roger and Mark had picked them up earlier today. Maureen had almost immediately asked where, "that guy with the striped hair," was. So they'd called Christian and invited him along a few hours earlier than he'd been expecting them to.

It was almost inconceivable how quickly the two divas had hit it off, Mark thought with a grin. He'd have expected them to just annoy the hell out of each other, but apparently they enjoyed the challenge of having to fight for the spotlight. And Christian certainly loved making subtle comments and insults that Maureen completely missed. If they could keep themselves under control, it would be a win-win situation.

Earlier they hadn't been that bad. It was only in the last hour or so that they'd really started getting absorbed in themselves. Before that Mark had been surprised by how much Maureen had actually paid attention to him, how she kept giving him little glances out of the corner of her eye when someone else was talking, almost as if she was making sure he was still there. He hadn't realized his leaving had had such a huge effect on her. It was sort of humbling. He hadn't really thought Maureen would care.

Even Joanne had acted relieved to see him. In her own stern but caring way she'd taken a moment to scold him for taking so long to contact them. She'd also been giving little signs of affection that she'd never shown towards him before. She'd pat him on the shoulder or back, had given him hugs upon greeting and parting, and at one point had placed her hand on top of his at the table and given a little squeeze. It had freaked him out at first, because Joanne wasn't really big on touching. After a while he'd realized that she must have actually missed him a lot as well.

Everything about having the two women visit was turning out to be great. He was glad that his nervousness before they'd shown up had been completely misplaced. The only thing that had been driving him crazy was that they still didn't know about Roger and him. It always seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, but how were you supposed to bring something like that up? He'd asked Roger about it earlier, and the guitarist had just smiled and said, "Don't worry, we'll figure it out." When Mark had pressed the issue, Roger had looked thoughtful for a second, and then his face had lit up as he said, "Actually, now that you mention it, I have an idea. Just wait until the show tonight. I'll take care of it."

That's where they were now, waiting for Roger and the Well Hungarians to take the stage. It was a small venue; just one of the local dance-clubs. The place was packed, which was understandable. The band had been able to fill large venues easily, but Roger, Blake and Jeff insisted on playing small ones every once in a while. They said it helped them keep in touch with their roots. Roger liked playing to a smaller crowd anyway. He seemed to prefer the intimate feel of it.

Thankfully, since they were "with the band", they'd been allowed to hang out backstage in the wings where it wasn't nearly as crowded. Roger was busy double checking the amps now, and had spent the last hour or so setting up with Blake and Jeff. When they played small venues, they liked to do everything themselves, just like the old days. At least Roger said he did. Mark wasn't sure how the other two felt about it.

Mark realized belatedly that he'd been zoning out a little when Joanne said his name sharply, and he guessed it had probably been about the third time she'd repeated it. He snapped out of it and smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, Joanne," he said. "What did you say?" Christian and Maureen had started talking to each other like auctioneers on crack again while he'd been out of it. They weren't paying any attention to either of them anymore.

"It's fine," Joanne assured him. "I've just been meaning to ask… well, I wanted to wait until Maureen was occupied, because I didn't know if this was a personal question or not, and I didn't want to pry."

"Don't worry about it," Mark prompted. "What was it?" Joanne looked a little uncomfortable about asking still, but she'd obviously been wondering for a while, and curiosity was beating out her sense of propriety. She lifted her left hand and tapped her ring finger.

"The ring?" she asked shortly. Mark's eyes widened.

Shit. Leave it to Joanne to notice something like that. She obviously hadn't made the connection to Roger because she must be used to seeing him with one on. He'd worn one ever since Mimi and him had gotten married, after all, and you'd have to look closely to see the difference between the one he wore now and the one he used to wear. Mark opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by a loud opening guitar riff.

He sighed, feeling slightly relieved. It seemed his explanation would have to wait.

* * *

The sound was almost deafening in the crowded club, music soaring over the screams and cheers of the people practically writhing in the audience. The Well Hungarians lit up the stage, their lead guitarist belting out the lyrics, his rough voice ripping into the melody energetically. Maureen and Joanne watched in something akin to stunned awe. 

"Holy SHIT!" Maureen screamed over the music, "They've gotten SO much better!"

Mark hadn't really noticed, but he supposed it was true. They really had improved a lot since signing their new contract. Whether that was because they had more resources, better equipment, or just more experience, Mark wasn't sure.

Roger was in his element, like he always was onstage. Knowing that Mark was watching always seemed to give him a focus, an edge that he couldn't quite replicate without the filmmaker there. He glanced into the wings, his heart giving a little jump at the small, proud smile Mark had on his face. A smile he wasn't hiding behind his camera anymore.

The band performed some of their old songs, going through the highlights from their first album. With sweat rolling into his eyes, Roger stepped closer to the mic in between songs towards the end of the first set.

"After this next song we're gonna take a little break," he explained, grinning when a few groans of disappointment came up from the audience. "This is a brand new one off our latest album, which will be available next month on the 23rd." He paused at the cheer that went up. He glanced backstage and gave a sheepish grin. "I know I probably should've waited until next week, since that's our three month anniversary, but no time like the present, right? This one's for you, Mark."

Mark's eyes widened. Fuck, Roger wasn't kidding when he said he'd take care of it, was he? Mark knew he should probably be a little ticked off, but he couldn't help the amused smile from creeping onto his face. Vaguely, he could hear Christian cracking up behind him. Joanne's eyebrows shot up, and it only took her a second to figure out the meaning behind Mark's ring. Maureen was sputtering incoherently.

"Wait, wait, what the FUCK does that mean!" she asked, before the song started and cut her off.

_Hit back, it won't hurt you_

_Lean in, no inertia_

_Bold is the love that I fight to save_

_Head on, no collision_

_Confusion, indecision_

_I don't believe I'm too far to be saved_

Maureen was still buzzing behind Mark, and Joanne was trying to calm her down over the music. Chris looked a little surprised, but still more amused than anything. For Mark, everyone else but Roger had ceased to exist.

_Twist and turn me, bait and burn me_

_Smile and send me to oblivion_

_Breathe and bathe me, just be and save me_

_Know I'm just here to the left of you_

_And when there's only the dark_

_I can still see the light in your eyes_

Roger had started glancing backstage, and now his eyes were locked with Mark's. There was his reason for singing, for being, for _everything, _and it was becoming difficult to keep his mind on the lyrics.

_Dream on, fill me up now_

_I bet you know just how loud I can scream, don't you let me go_

_Feed on infatuation_

_Swallow, just one taste of all that I am, all I have to show_

_Twist and turn me, bait and burn me_

_Smile and send me to oblivion_

_Breathe and bathe me, just be and save me_

_Know I'm just here to the left of you_

_And when there's only the dark I can still see the light_

_When there's only the dark you are always the light_

_In my eyes_

The song finished to screaming applause. Roger turned back to the crowd, smiled and said, "Don't go anywhere, we'll be right back." Then he was setting down his guitar and sauntering backstage, attempting to look much more calm and collected than he felt.

"Soooo, what'd you think?" he asked Mark when he'd reached him.

Roger's eyes widened momentarily when Mark didn't answer him, but pulled him down into a kiss. Roger grinned against his mouth. Damn, Mark must have completely forgotten anyone else was there; either that, or he momentarily didn't give a shit. He wondered what Maureen's face looked like.

He didn't have much time to wonder, because after wrapping his arms around Mark's waist and pulling him closer, their mouths opening to share breath, tongues colliding, Roger pretty much drew a blank. After a few moments, they parted slightly, and Roger placed a soft kiss to Mark's forehead.

"Liked it, then?" he asked. Mark smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

"Don't fish for compliments," he muttered, but smiled anyway and added, "Loved it."

They still had their arms around each other and were grinning like two idiots in love when Chris cleared his throat loudly. They turned. Roger could almost see the situation finally registering in Mark's mind as his face went from questioning to horrified to bright red in 0.3 seconds.

"Well, so much for my theory about _Roger_ being the exhibitionist out of the two of you," Chris stated. "However, I think you've broken her." He pointed a finger in Maureen's direction.

The drama queen was standing stock-still, her eyes wide and mouth gaping open. She blinked.

"Uh… Maureen?" Mark asked. He glanced at Joanne, who looked surprised, but remarkably less so than her lover. She shrugged. Chris walked over to Maureen and snapped in front of her face. She smacked his hand away.

"HOLY FUCK!" she finally exclaimed when her mouth caught up to her. "I mean, SHIT, what the HELL, you guys are, I mean I never thought, well, yeah, now in hindsight I can, but oh my GOD, that was the HOTTEST THING EVER!" Mark blushed even redder. Maureen pranced over and hugged them both in one move. Then she smacked Roger on the back of the head.

"What the fuck, Roger!" she asked. "You guys have been together three whole months! And you haven't told me! Details!" Joanne laughed and moved over to them.

"And what kind of way was _that _to break it to us?" she asked. "A little dramatic, don't you think?" Roger grinned.

"Yeah, well, I figured it'd be easiest… since I wouldn't have to think about how to bring it up in a conversation. Besides, I really wanted to use that song tonight anyway."

"Well, I was about to–" Joanne trailed off and grabbed Roger's left hand. She looked at his ring more closely and then let it go, copying the process with Mark. "Ah. I thought so."

"Wait, wait, RINGS!" Maureen squealed. "That is so fucking CUTE!" She started babbling again, asking ten questions without pausing to let them answer. Chris looked on in amusement, leaning against the wall.

"Man, that's fuckin' crazy," he heard to his right, and looked over to see Blake watching too. "I mean, fuck, man, I can't believe they just– you know– in front of everyone!" Blake was even blushing slightly under his dark skin. Chris rolled his eyes and smiled.

Without warning, he turned, grabbed the front of Blake's shirt, and pulled him forward sharply. Blake's eyes widened comically in the second before their lips touched, but then Chris was kissing him, practically raping his mouth, pinning him to the wall. Blake let out a somewhat unmanly squeal, and Chris pulled back, their lips separating with a loud smack. He grinned.

"You seriously need to get over it," he explained, straightening Blake's shirt and then patting him on the head like a terrier. "It's not that big of a deal." Then he walked away, heading towards the bar with a slight bounce in his step, whistling. Blake watched him go, his eyes widened in disbelief.

He turned to see that Maureen, Joanne, Roger and Mark were all staring at him with looks mirroring his own on their faces. Apparently, they'd seen the whole thing. Mark shook his head slowly.

"Our friends are fucked up," he stated succinctly. Roger smiled and kissed him on the lips.

"So are we," he answered. Mark laughed.

"And strangely, I'm finding that might not be such a bad thing," he said.

Roger just kissed him again.

* * *

**THE END**

For real this time. No foolin'. God... that just... depresses me.

Anyway, the song used in this chapter is "Just Here to the Left of You" by Adam Pascal. (Like the other song I used, if you listen to it, it's like it's ROGER singing! XD :headdesk:) Anyways, all credit goes to him for that. Woopee.

The one-shots should start being posted tomorrow. I have a couple in reserve. Tonight I'm just too tired and a little sad that the big part is over.

But here's the GIFT I promised. I was drawing. So I ended up drawing Christian, only in a creepy sort of anime way... cuz I'm a loser. Thought you'd all possibly like a gander anyways. Just take out the spaces:

http/i28. photobucket. com/ albums/ c208/ MariaBubbia / Christian2. jpg

that's all folks. Thanks for reading! And please, even though it's the end, don't slack off on reviews. I would cry. TT


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